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SAMUEL  FRANCIS  WOOLARD 


Copyright  1910  by 

The  Goldsmith-Woolard  Publishing  Co. 

Wichite,  Kansas,  U.  S.  A. 

Entered  at  Stationers  Hall,  London,  Ensland 


50th  Thousand 


THE  GOLDSMITH-WOOLARD  PUBLISHmG    COMPANY 
Wichita,  Kansas,  U.  S.  A. 


The  HcCormick-Armstrong  Press 
Wichita,  U.  S.  A. 


^^/^Xl^^\ 


en 


When  you  are  a  father,  and  you  hear  your  children's 
little  voices,  you  will  feel  that  those  little  ones  are  akin 
to  every  drop  in  your  veins;  that  they  are  the  very 
flower  of  your  life  and  you  will  cleave  so  closely  to  them 
that  you  seem  to  feel  every  movement  that  they  make. 
Since  I  have  been  a  father  I  have  come  to  understand 
God.  He  is  everywhere  in  the  world  because  the  whole 
world  comes  from  Him. 

Pere  Gobiot — Balzac 


IN  CERE  in  the  belief  that  the  fathers  were  not 
receiving  their  share  of  affectionate  praise — 
I  offered  prizes  for  the  best  expressions  in 
prose  and  verse — ^hopeful  that  a  new  senti- 
ment might  be  created  which  would  result  in  making 
happier  and  better  fathers  and  more  appreciative  sons 
and  daughters.  I  have  confidence  in  the  final  result. 
The  judges  were  the  following  well  known  literary  folk: 

Mrs.  William  Y.  Moboan,  Hutchinson,  Kansas. 
Mr.  Charles  Morbatt  Habger,  Abilene,  Kansas. 
Mr.  Henbv  J.  Allen,  Wichita,  Kansas. 

There  were  five  prizes  in  each  class,  and  the  awards 
were: 

IN   PROSE 

First.  "A  Psalm  of  Fatherhood,"  by  Cora  G.  Lbwib,  of  Kins- 
ley. Kansas. 

Second.  "Father,"  by  Obman  C.  Embbt,  Wichita,  Kansas. 

Third.    "Father,"  by  E.  A.  Dobsbt,  Wichita,  Kansas. 

Fourth.  "To  My  Father's  Memory,"  by  Waeren  E.  Coustock, 
Kansas  City,  Mo. 

Fifth.  "A  Little  More  Love  for  Father,"  by  Auia  Pbndextbb 
Hatdbn,  Rochester,  New  Yoric. 

m  VERSE 

First.      "Father,"  by  Meltina  Genoa  Morbis,  Bolton,  Kansas. 

Second.  "Faithful  Father,"  by  Mbs.  Celbsta  BAiiL  Mat,  Black- 
well,  Oldahoma. 

Third.    "Father,"  by  Edqab  A.  Guest,  Detroit,  MichigaB. 

Fourth.  "To  My  Father,"  Miss  Flobence  Gilmobb.  Columbus, 
Ohio. 

Fifth.  "He  Walks  With  Me,"  Miss  Mab  PEBBaRiNE.  La  Lus, 
New  Mexico. 

I  am  grateful  to  all  those  who  contributed  thought 
on  the  subject.  The  great  number  of  responses  was 
earnest  proof  that  many  were  of  the  same  beUef  as 
myself,  and  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  publish  a  larger 
number,  as  all  were  worthy  and  showed  the  deep 
feeling  of  every  writer,  while  doing  honor  to  themselves 
in  thus  honoring  father. 

Samuel  Francis  Woolard 


FATHER 

Upon  his  shoulders  weigh  the  stem  demands 
Of  men  and  nations;  but  erect  he  stands, 

Firm  and  unfaltering. 
A  sovereign  he,  and  to  no  royal  hands 

Doth  servile  tribute  bring. 
Yet,  see  him  bow,  one  threshold  passing  o'er, 
While  all  his  pride's  apparel  falls  before 
Young  eyes,  who  greet  him  "Father,"  at  the  door 

Where  Love  is  king. 

— Melvina  Genoa  Morru 


FATHER 

Author  of  my  being,  the  furnisher  of  my  name,  the 
protector  of  my  infancy,  the  coimsellor  of  my  youth, 
the  advisor  of  my  manhood; — he  who  best  imderstood 
my  frailties — who  was  proudest  of  my  successes  and 
most  sorrowful  in  my  reverses; — a  friend  without  self 
interest,  and  a  guide  whose  leading  was  always  toward 
the  right — my  father. 

E.  A.  Dorset 


FATHER 

I  thank  Thee,  O,  my  Father  dear, 

For  teaching  me  Thy  name; 
None  other  name  can  ever  be. 

Or  mean  to  me  the  same. 
Thou  art  my  Father,  Mother,  Friend, 

These  three  in  one  art  Thou; 
And  best  of  all,  O,  Father  dear, 

Thou'rt  Father  here  and  now. 

AoNESs  Greene  Foster 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


A  PSALM  OF  FATHERHOOD 


see  around  me  a  new  world.  It  is  light,  and  I 
see  green  pastures,  where  young  trees  are 
growing  beside  bright  waters. 

Whence  comes  the  sweet  music  that  I  hear 
with  my  soul?  It  is  the  singing  of  created  things  in 
praise  of  Fatherhood.  I  hear  it,  and  am  glad  in  my 
heart,  for  I  have  just  looked  on  the  face  of  my  first-bom, 
and  now  I  hear  the  World's  Song  of  Welcome,  and  my 
feet  are  set  where  the  Eternal  Winds  of  Life  blow. 

I  lift  mine  eyes  to  the  stars,  and  rejoice  in  the  mercy 
of  God,  for  He  hath  made  me  one  with  Himself  in  Father- 
hood. If  I  have  not  that,  I  perish  as  the  grass,  and  my 
life  goeth  out  like  a  candle  in  a  storm. 

For  this  child's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  my  beloved, 
the  Mother,  I  will  be  strong  to  endure  and  to  work,  in 
the  days  that  are  to  come.  I  will  keep  my  hands  clean, 
and  my  heart  pure,  that  I  may  ascend  the  hill  of  life 
and  stand  in  its  holy  places. 

In  this  new  Earth  which  the  Lord  has  spread  about 
me  like  a  cloud,  I  see  many  children.  Some  have  eyes 
full  of  light,  and  some  have  tears  on  their  young  faces, 
and  shadows  upon  their  hearts.  But  all  are  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Jehovah,  and  because  I  am  a  Father,  I 
must  serve  with  patience,  and  with  labor,  to  clear  away 
the  briars  from  the  paths  where  their  tender  feet  must 
walk. 

I  will  pray  for  them  also,  that  the  sim  may  shine  on 
their  way;  that  the  gates  of  plenty  may  stand  ajar  for 
them;  that  the  golden  bowl  of  health  may  be  full,  like 
the  pool  in  the  valley  where  flow  the  waters  from  springs 
hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  hill;  that  the  fountains  of  use- 
fulness may  be  unsealed  for  them,  and  their  hearts 
filled  with  joy  in  their  work;  that  every  evening  they 
may  lie  down  in  the  green  pastures  beside  the  still 
waters,  where  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  will  watch  over 
them  imtil  the  morm'ng  comes. 

Cora  G.  Lewis 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


FATHEB 

Life  tells  me  now  I  did  not  understand 

My  father  in  the  good  old  days  of  yore, 
When  we  romped  lanes  of  summer,  hand  in  hand, 

And  gathered  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  shore. 
I  never  knew  the  meaning  of  his  sighs 

Nor  guessed  the  secret  of  his  boundless  love, 
Though  seeing  oft  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes — 

A  light  a  growing  boy  knows  nothing  of. 

I  took  for  granted  all  his  kindly  ways; 

I  only  knew  I  liked  him  best  of  all, 
And  that  the  days  with  him  were  golden  days — 

But  he  was  big,  and  I  so  very  small. 
I  never  guessed  why  he  should  care  to  be 

The  chum  of  mine  he  was — so  long  ago; 
The  picture  that  he  saw  I  could  not  see, 

The  future  dreams  he  dreamed  I  could  not  know. 

But  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  older  grown. 

As  old  as  he  was  then,  and  oh,  I  know 
Just  what  he  dreamed  of  when  we  were  alone; 

And  why  he  seemed  always  to  love  me  so. 
To-day — ah,  could  I  only  call  him  there, 

I  fain  would  tell  him  that  I  tried  to  be 
The  man  he  dreamed  of  when  his  boy  stood  near — 

Am  I,  I  wonder,  what  he  longed  to  see? 

To-day  I  know  that  every  act  and  deed 

And  every  kiss  he  pressed  upon  my  cheek, 
Were  fraught  with  meaning  only  God  can  read, — 

His  heart  held  words  his  lips  could  never  speak; 
And  ever  he  was  looking  far  ahead. 

With  tears  his  eyes  were  often,  often  dim, 
To-day  I  know — Oh,  would  he  were  not  deadl 

What  I  am  now  I  owe  alone  to  him! 

Edgab  a.  Guest 

TO  BIT  FATHEB 

Ah,  we  were  thoughtless,  thankless — Youth  is  sot 
We  took,  as  we  do  still,  the  sxm,  the  rain. 

The  tender  love  that  with  our  growth  did  grow. 
The  watchful  care  that  shielded  us  from  pain  I 

And  now  the  fleeting  years  have  sternly  told 

More  precious  was  thy  love  than  fame  and  gold  1 

Florknck  Gilmorb 


THE  THBEADBABE  COAT 

f^LONE  in  the  dark  of  the  attic  it  hung, 

^5^  Far  hid  from  the  gaze  of  the  curious  crowd, 

But  the  sweet  solemn  splendors  of  memory  clung 

To  the  dear  faded  thing,  like  the  light  on  a  cloud; 
And  the  gloom  of  the  garret  is  rifted  to-day 

By  the  soft  after-glow  that  memories  shed; 
And  the  music  comes  back,  though  the  singer's  away, 

Asleep  in  the  still  songless  house  of  the  dead. 

It  is  only  a  coat — weather-beaten  and  old. 

But  it  stsmds  for  the  truest  of  loves  to  me; 
The  dear  form  of  my  father  it  used  to  enfold. 

When  the  wind-driven  snow  swept  over  the  lea; — 
And  he  hugged  up  a  lad  from  the  clutch  of  the  cold. 

Like  a  twittering  bird  in  a  sheltering  nest, — 
Ah  yes,  it  is  faded,  storm-beaten  and  old, 

But  it  passes  the  wesJth  of  all  silver  and  gold. 

Chables  Coke  Woods 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


HT  FATHER 

As  he  sits  there — 

His  head  thrown  back,  the  silver  of  his  hair, 
As  shining  there  so  softly  fringed  and  white 

Against  the  darkened  leather  of  the  chair, 
Is  crowning  him  with  radiance  of  light. 

That  softens  all  the  deep  and  furrowed  care 
Of  his  dear  face, — 
My  father  1 

As  he  sits  there — 

His  gentle  eyes  lifted  to  pictured  face 
Above — my  own  dead  mother's  face — as  fair 
As  pictured  saint  and  noble,  sweet  and  rare, 
With  eyes  that  seem  to  gaze  with  earnest  thought 
Upon  him,  eyes  by  artist-cunning  caught. 

That  shine  with  light  of  love  and  living  grace, 
As  he  sits  there — 
My  father  1 

As  he  sits  there — 

We  picture  him  as  in  his  younger  days, 
His  princely  beauty  and  his  gallant  ways, 
A  knight  of  old  so  courteous,  true  and  brave, 
Worthy  all  love  the  darling  mother  gave. 

Worthy  her  spirit's  sweet  and  loving  care. 
As  he  sits  there — 
My  father  1 

As  he  sits  there — 

Ah  well,  we  know  each  precious  thought  is  back 
With  her  in  the  old  and  rose-wreathed  track 
Of  happiness.     His  weary  eye-lids  close. 
A  quiet  smile  quivering  comes  and  goes. 
And  as  the  fading  fire,  soft  flickering,  throws 
Its  light  upon  his  face  in  mellowed  beams. 
We  know  the  night  has  met  the  day  in  dreams. 
As  he  sits  there — 
My  father! 

Bbttib  Gabland 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


O 


H,  no,  I  cannot  go  with  you  after  dinner  to- 
night, because  that  is  Father's  time,  and  we 
always  have  so  much  fun  then." 
That  is  what  I  heard  a  little  maiden  say  to 
her  school  friend,  who  had  invited  her  to  go  somewhere 
with  her. 

"Father's  time,"  I  wondered  what  that  meant,  and 
so  I  asked  the  little  maiden,  "What  is  Father's  time?" 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "  'Father's  time'  is  right  after  dinner 
at  night,  an  hour  or  so  before  we  go  to  bed.  Father 
makes  lots  of  pleasure  for  us  then,  and  it  is  the  only 
time  we  can  see  him,  except  in  the  early  morning,  and 
that  is  for  such  a  short  while.  Father  never  goes  away 
at  that  time,  neither  do  we;  we  give  that  hour  to  him, 
and  he  gives  it  to  us.  It  is  our  'together  hour.'  Oh, 
he  is  such  a  good,  dear  father." 

What  a  testimonial  to  the  high  standard  of  father- 
hood was  the  speech  of  this  little  girl.  Away  all  day, 
immersed  in  business  cares,  the  father  could  give  no 
time  to  his  children  except  the  hour  before  their  bed- 
time. With  what  happy,  light  hearts  these  little  ones 
kissed  him  good-night  when  bedtime  came,  and  with 
what  smiling  faces  they  went  to  sleep  to  dream  beauti- 
ful  dreams  of  father-love!     American  Motherhood 


D 


ADDY  TOMMIN'I  Saddo  over  'mato  vines," 
lisped  three-year-old  to  her  eldest  sister,  the 
care-taker,  bare  eight  summers;  the  youngest 
of  this  group  of  six,  a  babe,  scarce  two  years 
old.  All  summer,  the  mother  had  lain  in  the  hospital. 
The  patient,  God-fearing  father,  stooped  and  worn 
under  the  yoke  of  double  parental  duty  while  yet  in 
early  manhood,  had  given  to  his  babes  this  sign  of  the 
setting  sun,  that  they  might  look  for  his  home-coming 
from  the  bread-winning  work — for  this  was  yet  his 
lighter  task.  And  now,  one  carrying  the  dinner-pail, 
on  either  side  little  hands  tugging  the  sagging  trousers, 
baby  perched  on  his  arm,  all  telling  the  news  of  their 
lonely  vigil,  the  pathetic  group  disappears  within  the 
desolate  house.  Without  a  scowl,  but  with  many  re- 
assuring words  he  prepares  the  supper,  offers  up  thanks 
for  the  privilege  of  so  doing,  then  with  brooding  care 
tucks  them  away  for  the  night,  and  turns  to  household 
necessities.  A  few  little  garments  are  hung  on  the  line; 
bread  started  to  be  baked  before  he  leaves  in  the  morn- 
ing, then  a  few  hours,  and  the  sun  barely  risen  when  he 
stirs  again.  jIrb.  Richardson 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

OUR  FATHER 

There  are  men  that  time  but  mellows  as  it  ever  onward 
goes; 

There  are  hearts  that  carry  fragrance  as  the  fragrance  of 
the  rose; 

There  are  greetings  that  are  warmer  for  the  snowy  frost- 
ed head; 

There  are  memories  we  shall  treasure  e'en  till  memory 
has  fled. 

There  are  faces  time  has  furrowed,  where  are  joy  and 

sorrow  blent; 
There  are  feet  that  ne'er  grow  weary  when  on  deeds  of 

kindness  bent; 
There  are  souls  that  bid  defiance  to  each  worldly,  selfish 

creed; 
There  are  men  we  love  to  honor  for  each  thought  and 

word  and  deed. 

There  are  those  who  are  as  simbeams  as  they  go  their 
daily  round. 

They  are  worthy  of  remembrance,  for  but  seldom  are 
they  foimd. 

So  I  write  this  humble  tribute,  though  it  needs  a  wor- 
thier pen — 

To  a  prince  of  Nature's  moulding, —  one  who  loves  his 
fellow  men. 

Samdbi.  VVyatt 

HE  WALKS  WITH  ME 

He  walked  with  me  down  maple-shaded  lanes. 
And  violets  blossomed — for  it  was  Life's  Spring; 

And  for  the  sunUght  and  soft-falling  rains 
I  learned  from  him  a  song  of  praise  to  sing — 
For  everything. 

He  sought  me  out,  where  sin  had  hold  of  me, 
And  raised  me  up,  as  only  Father  could; 

And  when  the  world  was  smiling  doubtfully 
At  my  poor  blund'ring  efforts  to  make  good. 
He  understood. 

And  still  he  walks  with  me,  tho  stretched  between 

Is  that  still  stream  of  Death,  unknown  to  me; 
I  feel  the  leading  of  a  hand  unseen — 
Although  his  kindly  smile  I  may  not  see, 
He  walks  with  me. 

Mae  Pereobinb 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

♦i— I     TWBLTB 

THE  OROINART  FATHER 


FTER  all,  the  world  depends  upon  the  ordinary 
work  of  ordinary  people,  and  foremost  in  these 
ranks  we  find  the  ordinary  father.  In  fact 
he's  BO  ordinary  that  few,  if  any,  of  us  pay  any 
attention  to  him  or  take  note  of  his  coming  or  going. 
Even  to  himself  he  scarcely  takes  credit  for  the  place  he 
fills  in  the  world. 

Yet,  consider:  Could  the  work  of  the  world  move 
on  without  this  man?  Could  society  exist  without  hia 
ceaseless  efforts?  Could  the  home  which  is  the 
foundation  and  culmination  of  Christianity  and  civiliza- 
tion come  into  being  and  continue  should  this  man  do 
otherwise  than  as  he  does? 

Nol  The  fathers  of  the  world  bear  that  part  of  the 
world's  work  that  can  be  borne  by  no  one  else  so  well. 
They  make  of  the  fabric  of  society  a  cloth  of  gold  and 
set  the  homes  as  gems  thereon. 

They  plan  and  work,  succeed  or  fail  as  the  world 
judges  success  or  failure.  They  give  of  their  strength 
and  endurance,  of  their  energy  and  ambition,  of  their 
dreams  of  happiness  and  their  lessons  of  experience  and 
we  take  them  all  as  common  offerings,  failing  to  ap- 
praise them  at  a  quota  of  their  real  value. 

Let  us  now,  in  the  rush  of  life,  render  love,  reverence 
and  justice  to  this  man — the  ordinary  father. 

Minnie  Keith  Bailet 

r{ii  —  !<{« 


ERHAPS  it  is  because  all  my  life  I  wanted  my 
father  that  I  wish  I  could  write  a  worthy  word 
of  praise  to  the  great  world  of  fathers,  most  of 
whom  never  know  that  the  child's  love  for  the 
father  is  as  great  as  the  child's  love  for  the  mother, 
though  often  it  is  a  hidden  love. 

Fathers  are  human  beings  with  great  human  hearts 
which  welcome  as  truly  as  ever  did  a  mother's  heart  the 
thoughtful  acts  and  endearment  terms  of  beloved 
children. 

Father  I  The  one  whose  joy  is  the  reflected  happi- 
ness of  those  to  whom  he  gives  pleasure.  Fatherl 
Who  labors  because  he  loves,  who  is  the  bulwark  of  the 
household,  the  sun  whose  light  brings  joy,  whose 
shadow  brings  rain! 

Fatherl  The  son's  hero,  the  daughter's  ideal,  and 
the  mother's  comrade  1 

Anna  Thornton  Jones 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

FATHER 

Of  all  the  named  and  nameless  things, 

Beneath  the  rolling  stars — 
From  Atom  to  the  King  of  Kings, 

Amoeba  unto  Mars — 
We  call  the  name  of  Mother  first, 

And  yet  there  is  a  peer, — 
Another  name  that  man  accurst 

Has  rank'd  right  next  to  her. 

What  would  you  have?     What  will  you  claim? 

Where  reigns  eternal  law — 
Wilt  false  distinctions  needless  name, 

Or  fool  division  draw? 
Between  the  soil  on  which  you  dwell. 

The  red  earth  and  the  sod. 
That  mother  whom  we  love  so  well, 

And  fatherhood  of  God? 

O  Mother  Earth— O  Father  God, 

O  Nature  binding  both — 
From  yonder  planet  to  oxir  clod, 

A  universe  of  truth — 
We  see,  we  feel,  we  sense  the  whole. 

The  male  and  female  troth — 
And  in  the  form  we  find  the  soul. 

Evolving  forth  its  worth! 

Why  deem  this  greater  or  that  less? 

Why  make  of  either  all? — 
There  is  no  limit  I'd  caress. 

The  infinite  is  small — 
And  large  alike,  to  one  who  lives 

Amid  the  worlds  around. 
Or  stretches  hands  to  Him  who  gives 

His  silence  xinto  sound. 

For  know  that  names  are  synonyms 

Of  natures,  whose  outline 
Our  visions  catch,  ere  error  dims, 

Our  sense  of  things  divine; 
And  Mother  is  of  form  the  part 

To  bear  and  rear  our  frames. 
While  Father  dwells  within  the  heart 

And  each  the  other  names. 

John  Flbmino  Pooub 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

' rOUBTBBN ' 


THE  MATCH-MAKES 

My  mama  says  she's  married      I  ain't  yet. 

Eq  mama  says  she  ain't  a-goin'  to  let 

Nobody  marry  me  at  all  before 

I'm  seven  or  'leven  years  old,  er  maybe  more. 

My  mama  don't  believe,  she  says. 

In  makin'  early  marry-ges. 

But  I'm  a-goin  to  marry  jest 
The  nicest  en  the  goodest,  best 
Old  husband  ever  was.     Ef  you 
Won't  tell,  en  cross  your  heart,  I'll  whisper  who 
It  is.     It's  Papa.     Mama  says  she's  afraid 
He's  got  a  wife  already.    But  he'll  trade 
Her  off  fer  me,  I  bet,  or  else  I'll  take 
The  marry  off  of  him  en  make 
Him  marry  me.     En,  anyhow, 
I  don't  blieve  'at  he  is  married  now, 
'Cause  where's  he  keep  her?    Gramma  she 
It  jest  his  granmia,  like  she  is  to  me, 
En  I'm  his  little  girl,  en  brother's  brother, 
En  that's  all,  'cept  my  mama  is  his  mother. 

I  wish  my  mama  wasn't  married,  fer 

I'd  like  to  have  my  papa  marry  her 

While  he's  a-waitin'.     He's  so  good  en  kind 

He'd  do  it  jest  fer  me,  en  wouldn't  mind. 

I  'most  believe  I  will,  'cause  she's  so  nice 

It  wouldn't  hurt  if  she  is  married  twice. 

Edmund  Vance  Cooke 
From  "I  Rule  The  House." 
Copjrright  1910,  by  The  Dodge  Publishing  Co. 
Used  by  permission  of  author  and  publisher. 

GOD  HAVE  THEE  IN  HIS  CARE 

Go,  boy!    Thou  hast  our  love  and  prayers 

To  keep  thy  sovd  from  illl 
Through  lonely  hours,  through  anxious  cares, 

Beloved,  believed  in  still. 

If  storms  should  wreck  thy  fragile  barque. 

If  evil  to  thee  come. 
There  shines,  at  all  times,  through  the  dark 

A  light  for  thee  at  home. 

From  sin  and  shame  God  guide  thy  feetl 

A  parent's  humble  prayer. 
Until  once  more  in  joy  we  meet, 

God  haVe  thee  in  his  care  I 

Robert  A.  Barker 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

IN  DEFENSE  OF  HIS  SON 


ENTLEMBN  OP  THE  JURY:  If  there  is  a  culprit 
here,  it  is  not  my  son — it  is  myself — it  is  I! — 
I,  who  for  these  last  twenty-five  years  have 
opposed  capital  punishment — have  contended 
for  the  inviolabihty  of  human  life — have  committed 
this  crime,  for  which  my  son  is  now  arraigned.  Here  I 
denoimce  myself,  Mr.  Advocate  General!  I  have 
committed  it  under  all  aggravated  circumstances, 
deliberately,  repeatedly,  tenaciously.  Yes,  this  old 
and  absurd  lex  talionis — this  law  of  blood  for  blood — 
I  have  combated  all  my  hfe — all  my  Ufe,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury!  And,  while  I  have  breath,  I  will  continue  to 
combat  it,  by  all  my  efforts  as  a  writer,  by  all  my  words 
and  all  my  votes  as  a  legislator!  I  declare  it  before  the 
crucifix;  before  that  victim  of  the  penalty  of  death, 
who  sees  and  hears  us;  before  that  gibbet,  to  which, 
two  thousand  years  ago,  for  the  eternal  instruction  of 
the  generations,  the  human  law  nailed  the  Divine! 

In  all  that  my  son  has  written  on  the  subject  of 
capital  punishment — and  for  writing  and  pubUshing 
which  he  is  now  before  you  on  trial — in  all  that  he  has 
written,  he  has  merely  proclaimed  the  sentiments  with 
which,  from  his  infancy,  I  have  inspired  him. 

Hugo 

A  LITTLE  MORE  LOVE  FOR  FATHER 


— ^  ^AUGHTER,  stay  a  moment  in  your  pleasures; 

I  M  have  a  Uttle  chat  with  Father;  give  him  a  hug 
and  a  kiss  as  you  pass  his  chair.  He  may 
scarcely  look  up  from  his  reading,  but  be  sure 
he  is  pleased  just  the  same.  Take  a  little  time  from 
your  young  friends  and  give  it  to  Father  who  is  doing 
everything  for  you. 

Son,  do  not  look  on  father  simply  as  the  man  who 
makes  the  money  for  you  to  spend.  You  will  never 
know  the  times  his  children  hurt  his  feelings  by  their 
thoughtlessness  and  ingratitude.  "The  serpent's 
tooth"  well  describes  the  feelings  of  outraged  parent- 
hood. 

Did  you  ever  observe  father  looking  at  you  so  earnestly 
with  that  searching  gaze  that  seemed  to  look  through 
you  and  beyond  you,  that  you  wondered  why? 

He  may  be  dreaming  of  the  future  he  would  like  for 
you  to  make,  the  man  he  wishes  you  to  be.  You  may 
fall  short  of  all  he  would  desire  for  you,  but  you  can 
give  a  Uttle  more  love  to  Father. 

Alma  Pbndbxter  Hatden 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


WHEN  THE  OLD  MAN  SMOKES 

In  the  forenoon's  restful  quiet, 

When  the  boys  are  off  at  school, 
When  the  window  lights  are  shaded 

And  the  chimney-comer  cool, 
Then  the  old  man  beeks  his  arm-chair, 

Lights  his  pipe  and  settles  back; 
Falls  a-dreaming  as  he  draws  it 

Till  the  smoke-wreaths  gather  black. 

And  the  tear  drops  come  a  trickling 

Down  his  cheeks  a  silver  flow — 
Smoke  or  memories  you  wonder 

But  you  never  ask  him — no. 
For  there's  something  almost  sacred 

To  the  other  family  folks 
In  those  moods  of  silent  dreaming 

When  the  old  man  smokes. 

Ah,  perhaps  he  sits  there  dreaming 

Of  the  love  of  other  days 
And  of  how  he  used  to  lead  her 

Through  the  merry  dance's  maze; 
For  he  called  her  "Little  Princess," 

And,  to  please  her,  used  to  twine 
Tender  wreaths  to  crown  her  tresses. 

From  the  "Matrimony  Vine." 

Then  before  his  mental  vision 

Comes,  perhaps,  a  sadder  day, 
When  he  left  his  little  princess 

Sleeping  with  her  fellow  clay. 
How  his  young  heart  throbbed  and  pained  hitv 

Why  the  memory  of  it  chokes; 
Is  it  of  these  things  he's  thinking 

When  the  old  man  smokes? 

But  some  brighter  thoughts  possess  him — 

For  the  tears  are  dried  the  while, 
And  the  old  worn  face  is  wrinkled 

In  a  reminiscent  smile. 
From  the  middle  of  the  forehead 

To  the  feebly  trembling  Ups, 
At  some  ancient  prank  remembered — 

Or  some  long  unheard  of  quip. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

Then  the  lips  relax  their  tension 

And  the  pipe  begins  to  slide, 
Till  in  little  clouds  of  ashes 

It  falls  softly  at  his  side; 
And  his  bead  bends  low  and  lower 

Till  his  chin  rests  on  his  breast 
And  he  sits  in  peaceful  slumber 

Like  a  little  child  at  rest. 

Paul  Laxtrbncb  Dunbab 


OUR  NOBLE  SIRE 

Whose  heart  is  it  that  fills  with  pride 
When  we  in  our  first  trousers  stride, 
And  when  we  fly  a  Uttle  higher. 
Rejoices?    'Tis  our  noble  sire  I 

Who  sees  we  kids  grow  into  boys, 
Puts  up  with  our  infernal  noise. 
Tells  us  stories,  each  a  whopper 
Full  of  genii?    'Tis  our  popper! 

Who  buys  us  firecrackers  and  toys 
And  stuffs  our  paunch  with  sugared  joys, 
The  circus  shows  us  filled  with  awe? 
Why,  surel  it  is  our  genial  pal 

Who  thrills  when  we  athletes  become 
And  "break  the  record,"  jimip  or  nm, 
Or  sighs  if  fortune  proves  a  traitor? 
It  is  our  omnipresent  pater  I 

Who,  when  we  come  to  man's  estate 
It  anxious  till  we  strike  our  gait, 
And  frets  himself  into  a  lather 
If  things  go  wrong?    It  is  our  father  I 

Who  shoves  his  snout  into  the  trough 
To  root  the  other  porkers  off, 
And  swipes  the  stuff  that  makes  us  glad? 
It  is  our  philanthropic  dad  I 

Who  gained  the  prize  we  value  most, 
Our  truest  friend  and  fondest  boast  I 
Who  annexed  mother  to  the  clan, 
And  got  her  for  us?    The  old  manl 

E.  A.  Hbrrick 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


r 

SB 


ATHERS  as  We  Find  Them"  was  the  title  of  a 
paper  requested  of  the  newly-elected  member 
of  a  woman's  club  at  the  first  meeting  of  the 
section  on  "The  Family.' 


"The  family  begins  with  the  father.  He  isn't  just  a 
factor;  he's  the  head,"  whispered  a  protestor  to  her 
neighbor,  who  replied  indignantly:  "He's  not  a  factor; 
he's  partner,  I  suppose  you  mean.  We  don't  say 
'head'  any  more,  you  know.     Hushl" 

The  new  member  came  forward  with  her  paper, 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  sudden  impulsive 
movement  laid  it  down.  Her  cheeks  were  pink  with 
confusion,  her  lovely  eyes  on  them  all  as  she  said  with 
the  simplicity  of  a  child:  "I  just  can't  do  it,  you  know. 
I  tried;  but  I  can't  dissect  fathers  as  a  whole,  when  my 
own  father  is  so  unutterably  dear — has  been  ever  since 
I  could  speak  his  name — that  I  would  far  rather  tell 
what  made  him  so  beyond  any  other  fathers  I  knew. 
But  they  hadn't  been  taught.  You  say  men  and 
women  know  naturally.  I  say  they  don't  I  Father- 
hood and  motherhood  are  not  learned  out  of  printed 
books  nor  in  set  lessons.  It  is  life  that  teaches — life 
that  is  love  itself.  My  father  was  a  busy  lawyer,  young 
still  when  I  was  born  but  wise  in  love,  in  child  knowl- 
edge so  that  a  bad  child,  as  we  call  little  unfortun- 
ates, loved  and  obeyed  him.  I  thought  when  I  first 
learned  the  Lord's  Prayer  that  it  must  mean  my  own 
father,  and  even  now  I  have  hardly  yet  learned  to 
separate  him  from  my  thought  of  the  Heavenly  Father. 
My  father  was  a  child  with  us  in  our  plays,  yet  the 
father  whose  verdict  on  all  our  methods  meant  a  justice, 
a  wisdom  and  a  sweetness  that  I  pray  my  own  children 
may  in  some  measure  find  in  me.  In  time  I  grew  cer- 
tain that  it  is  mothers  who  must  teach  their  sons  to  be 
such  fathers  in  the  homes  they  might  be  and  will  be 
when  love  is  the  law.  Many  a  father  whom  we  regard 
simply  as  provider  and  wage-earner  has  another  power, 
and  women  know  that  this  power  is  the  very  height 
and  sum  of  tenderness  lying  mute,  perhaps,  till  the 
woman  brings  it  out,  shaping  his  life  and  with  the  same 
ideal.  These  fathers  could  never  be  pushed  into  the 
background,  nor  turned  into  mere  bill-pa3dng  machines. 
We  know  that  every  man-child  might  be  taught  the 
meaning  of  fatherhood  as  every  woman-child  knows 
and  feels  motherhood.  I  am  far  sorrier  for  the  men 
who  do  not  know  this  than  I  am  for  women  who  learn 
perhaps  only  through  motherhood,  but  do  not  know 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

how  to  create  the  missing  thing  in  the  father.  Earner, 
protector,  defender — the  strength  of  the  home — that  is 
the  real  father,  never  to  be  shoved  into  the  background, 
and  many  a  mother  feels  his  arms  about  her  as  if  she 
were  still  a  child,  and  knows  that  only  God  Himself 
could  be  tenderer,  or  truer.  That  is  Father,  and  we 
women  with  our  children  may  put  that  thought  into 
every  child  born  to  us,  and  pray  'Our  Father'  with 
fuller  heart  and  deeper  longing  that  love  may  rule  in  it." 

Helen  Campbelii 


FATHER'S  SUNDAY  MORNING 

Oh,  geel  but  Simday  morning's  fierce 

With  Dad  a  fussin'  round. 
We  almost  wish  for  school  again, 
And  tiptoe  just  as  soft,  but  then 

We're  sxire  to  make  some  sound. 

Then  Father  throws  his  paper  down. 

And  says:  "Well,  I'll  be  blamed  1 
You  kids  make  noise  enough  for  sixl 
You've  got  the  whole  house  in  a  fix — 
I  think  you'd  be  ashamed  I" 

So  then  he  prowls  around  and  yawns — 

It  makes  a  frightful  yawp — 
And  says:  "Great  Scott!    Get  me  the  axe. 
This  carpet's  ripped,  go  find  the  tacks, 

And  don't  stand  there  and  gawp. 

"Have  you  been  jumping  on  this  couch? 

I  cannot  feel  the  springs. 
I  see  an  arm  is  off  this  chair — 
You  must  think  me  a  millionaire 

The  way  you  break  up  things. 

'I'll  have  to  have  some  shingle  nails, 

And  want  the  hammer,  too. 
That  old  step-ladder's  somewhere  round, 
Although  of  course,  it  can't  be  found  I 

But  see  what  you  can  do." 

When  all  the  tools  are  piled  up  high, 

Then  Dad  is  sure  to  balk, 
And  say:  "You  kids  just  put  these  back — 
I've  worked  enough  around  this  shack  I 

I  think  ru  take  a  walk." 

Mat  Kbllet 


m  Af  I'I*^Y,    keen,  jolly,  stem  as  a  rock,  quick  of 

Yw  thought  and  decisive  in  action,  big-hearted, 
and  desirous  of  keeping  his  best  points  hidden; 
to  discover  those  one  must  delve  deep  and  be 
a  keen  observer  as  well.  To  show  a  tender  side  was  to 
him  weakness — it  must  be  discovered. 

A  Tbub  Scene:  A  cold  winter  evening;  Father 
seated  in  an  arm  chair  deep  in  thought;  a  little  girl 
sitting  near  singing  in  childish  voice.  Perhaps  two 
verses  of  the  song  had  been  sung  before  the  words 
secured  his  attention. 

"What  are  you  singing,  Callie?" 

"Rock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother." 

"Do  you  know  it  all?" 

"Yes." 

"Sing  it  aU." 

My  childish  soul  was  thrilled  by  the  deep  feeling  in 
his  heart  just  then,  so  without  looking  at  him,  the  song 
was  begun  again.  He  leaned  on  the  chair  arm  nearest 
me. 

"Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain. 
Long  I  to-night  for  thy  presence  again: 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  ana  so  deep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  Mother,  rock  me  to  sleep." 

The  work-weary  hands  covered  his  tired  eyes  as  he 
lived  over  again  scenes  in  the  Massachusetts  home. 

"Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  O  Mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  Mother,  rock  me  to  sleep."  ' 

I  looked  his  way  and  saw  tears  streaming  from  under 
his  hand.  How  long  he  lived  with  his  mother  I  do  not 
know,  for  I  stole  away  in  silence;  that  was  the  only  time 
I  ever  saw  my  father  cry. 

Energy  1  the  personification  of  it.  When  Ohio  was  the 
"Far  West,"  he  walked  from  Massachusetts,  bought 
land  in  the  "Western  Reserve,"  cleared  it  and  built  a 
house  from  its  timber.  After  two  years  in  response  to  a 
heart  call  from  his  mother,  he  began  the  walk  back  to 
the  old  Bay  State,  where  he  spent  the  winter  around 
the  family  hearth-stone,  and  in  the  spring  again  began 
the  long  walk  back  to  Ohio. 

This  stem,  unyielding  man  was  the  best  story  teller 
to  whom  youngsters  ever  listened.  War,  bear,  "Injun," 
catamount — any  story  asked  for  was  told  with  zest 
and  on  demand.  Town  "meetin' "  days  in  the  old  Bay 
State  made  splendid  stories,  too. 

Good-bye,  Daddy,  "Sweet  be  thy  slumbers  o'er 
Myrtle  and  Lee."  Cabrie  Kendali^Easterly 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

FAITHFUL  FATHEB 

Like  a  mighty  bulwark  stand, 
Father's  brain  and  heart  and  hand, 
Ready  to  oppose  the  strife 
And  vicissitudes  of  life; 
Shielding  those  he  loves  from  care, 
Leading  them  to  lives  most  fair, 
By  his  life  and  counsel  kind, 
And  his  earnest,  upright  mind. 
Willing  sacrifice  he  gives — 
All  he  has  and  is;  and  lives 
To  see  his  children  take  true  place 
In  life's  grand  drama,  face  to  face 
With  noble  men  and  ideals  great — 
True  factors  of  the  home  and  state. 

For  this  he  toils  from  mom  till  night, 
Foregoing  much  that  is  his  right; 
He  cannot,  like  the  mother,  move 
In  constant  atmosphere  of  love. 
That  makes  to  her  amends  for  much 
She  must  endure,  and  gives  her  such 
Returns  of  love.     A  watch-dog,  he. 
Who  guards  the  sacred  sanctity 
Of  his  dear  home,  nor  seeks  to  gain 
A  word  of  praise  for  hand  or  brain. 
But  lives  content  with  duties  done — 
That  is  his  share  from  sun  to  sunl 

O  sacrifice  almost  Divine  1 

O  Time  move  slow,  while  we  entwine 

A  wreath  of  joy  and  sunny  hours, 

All  perfumed  with  Love's  rarest  flowers  1 

And  ere  he  goes  to  Heaven's  reward. 

Make  him  feel  sure  of  our  regard  1 

Celesta  Bali.  May 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

O*^'  TWBNTT-TWO   i  ^  n  i  u  wii      m  ii  ■■  n  —  a  —  ii  —  i  m  ii  —  ii  ^  ri^ 

CONTBITION 

My  father,  o'er  thy  grave  long  years 

The  flowers  have  bloomed.     Yet,  still  my  tears 

Its  verdure  bathe;  still  conscience  cries 

Of  unrequited  sacrifice; 

Of  boundless  love  and  constant  aid 

With  base  ingratitude  repaid, 

And  tinges  every  thought  of  thee 

With  grief  and  pain  that  torture  me 

Until  my  soul,  with  anguish  riven. 

Gropes  out  for  thine — to  be  forgivenl 

My  father,  couldst  thou  only  know 
How  much  I  loved  thee,  and  the  woe 
With  which  I  constantly  recall 
My  cold  indifference  to  all 
Thy  kindly  care;  that  not  in  vain 
Thy  precepts;  that  thy  honored  name 
Is  still  my  talisman  and  shield. 
Upheld  by  pride  that  cannot  jdeld — 
Could  I  but  know  thou  knowest,  then 
Peace  might  come  to  me  again. 

My  father,  though  thy  form  be  gone. 
In  me  thy  purpose  still  lives  on; 
Around  me  still  thy  presence  stays, 
Illumes  my  path,  directs  my  ways; 
Thy  image  in  my  heart  enshrined 
Doth  shame  base  impulse  from  the  mind. 
And  whate'er  good  my  Ufe  may  yield 
Will  all  be  garnered  from  a  field 
Sown  fruitful  by  thy  loving  hand. 
My  father  I    Canst  thou  understand? 

A.  B.  Reeves 


FATHER'S  NAME 

They  were  out  on  the  beach,  the  staid  professional 
man  and  his  little  twins,  watching  the  waves  as  they 
washed  out  the  marks  they  made  in  the  sand. 

"Papa,"  chirped  Esther,  "I  can  make  your  name." 
And  she  took  a  stick  and  made  in  great  staggering  let- 
ters,—P-A-P-A. 

"Oh,  I  can  make  a  better  one,"  cried  Rachel,  and 
she  took  the  stick  and  wrote  L-O-V-E, — "That  is  your 
name,  Papa." 

That  was  years  ago.  They  are  women  now  but 
Father's  name  is  still  LOVE, 

Helen  Bullengeb 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

TWBNTT-THKXS 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  DAD 

Who  is  it,  when  the  kid  is  bad, 
Crawls  out  of  bed,  in  nightie  clad. 
And  up  and  down  the  floor,  egad  I 
Doth  walk,  though  walking's  not  his  fad? 
'Tis  Dad, 
Poor  Dad  I 

Who  is  it,  growing  old  and  gray, 
Toils  like  a  beaver  every  day. 
Yet  smiles  to  feel  that  Maw  and  Mae 
Are  recherche  and  quite  au  fait? 

'Tis  Dad, 

Poor  Dad! 

Who  is  it  sees  the  children  grow 
With  love  he  lacks  the  art  to  show, 
Perforce  content  with  overflow 
Of  loves  that  to  their  mothers  go? 

'Tis  Dad, 

Poor  Dad  I 

Who  is  it  of  his  bairnies  vain, 
And  yet  can't  make  the  feeling  plain, 
And  therefore  sobs  this  sob  of  pain, — 
This  doleful,  soulful,  sad  refrain? 
'Tis  Dad, 
Poor  Dadl 

A.  J.  Waterhousb 


WHEN   FATHER   ROMPS   WITH    THE   CHILDREN 

The  children  soon  forget  their  toys 
And  all  the  house  is  full  of  noise; 
The  Baby  claps  his  hands  and  crows. 
And  Mother's  heart  with  joy  o'erflows — 
When  Father  romps  with  the  children. 

The  aches  and  woes  of  life  take  flight, 
And  all  the  world  seems  sweet  and  bright; 
Then  aD  the  home  is  filled  with  cheer 
And  hearts  to  hearts  draw  very  near — 
When  Father  romps  with  the  children- 

Perchance  there'll  come  in  after  years 
A  time  when  life  is  full  of  tears, 
And  weary  footsteps  turn  once  more 
For  love  and  peace  to  their  own  door — 
When  Father  romps  with  the  children. 

Mat  McDonald  STRiKi.Aira 

By  pormiaeion  of 
American  Motherhood, 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

I  TWKNTT-rOUB  i"    i    ni^"^     ™  i  M  ii  ■«     n     ■■  i  ■■  i<^ 

DAVID'S  LAMENT  FOR  ABSALOM 


HHE  waters  slept.    Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream:  the  willow  leaves 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide. 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds;  and  the  long  stems 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way. 
And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitude,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world. 
King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem;  and  now  he  stood 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  space, 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath:  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words;  and  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there. 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh!  when  the  heart  is  full, — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance. 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy. 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer  I 
He  prayed  for  Israel;  and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield;  and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh!  for  Absalom, — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom, — 
The  proud  bright  being  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there. 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 

*  *  *  *  *  ii<  * 

The  pall  was  settled.    He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave;  and  as  the  folds 
Sank  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curie 
Were  floating  round  the  tassles  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  girls. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet;  his  banner  soiled 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 

Reversed,  beside  him;  and  the  jeweled  hilt 

Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade. 

Rested  like  mockery  on  his  covered  brow. 

The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle;  and  their  chief, 

The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  paU  steadfastly, 

As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 

As  if  a  tnampet  rang;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command 

In  a  low  tone  to  his  few  followers. 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.    The  King  stood  still 

'TU  the  last  echo  died;  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child. 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe: 

"Alas!  my  noble  boy!  that  thou  should'st  die, — 

Thou  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fairl 

That  death  should  settle  in  tb^  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  thia  clustering  hair — 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb; 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom  I 

"Cold  ia  thy  brow,  my  son  I  and  I  am  chill 

Aa  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee — 
How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp  string,  yearning  to  caresa  thee — 
And  hear  thy  sweet  'My  Fatherl'  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  I 

"The  grave  hath  won  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  youne; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush. 

And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung, — 
But  thou  no  more  with  thy  sweet  voice  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  I 

"And,  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 
How  will  its  love  for  thee,  aa  I  depart, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token! 
It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom! 

"And  now,  farewell!     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee; 
And  thy  dark  sin — oh!  I  could  drink  the  cup 

If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 
May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  homei 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom!" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child;  then  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
Hia  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer: 
And  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently, — and  left  him  there. 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 

N.  P.  Willis 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

IN  DAD'S  BED 

She  said,  and  she  nodded  her  head  each  word, 
"I  'ants  to  dit  in  Dad's  bed,  me  do;" 
But  her  mother — granting  her  mother  heard — 

Had  naught  to  say;  but  the  voice  came  through. 
Through  the  open  door,  through  the  purple  gloom, 

To  where  her  daddy  had  waked  and  knew 
That  he  wanted  her,  and  he  made  her  room. 
"I  'ants  to  dit  in  Dad's  bed,  me  do." 

And  then  he  waited  while  moments  fleet 

Dropped  away  from  time  in  a  purple  deep, 
But  never  a  patter  of  wee  bare  feet; 

So  he  snuggled  down  and  was  half  asleep 
When  a  thin,  grieved  voice  smote  on  his  ear. 

And  he  caught  the  sob  in  the  baby  tone: 
"Ain't  Papa  a-tummin?  I'ms  waitin'  here. 

Does  Papa  'ants  me  to  tum  alone?" 

But  later,  when  she  had  snuggled  down, 

The  grief  from  her  voice  was  gone  away, 
And  the  yellow  curls  from  her  tousled  crown 

Were  spread  a- wide  when  the  light  of  day 
Came  in  through  the  window  and  touched  her  head 

And  her  dimpled  cheek;  and  its  mellow  tone 
Like  gold-dust  lay  on  the  curls  outspread, 

Dad  thought  of  his  girl  in  the  dark  alone. 

And  he  kneeled  by  the  bed  ere  he  went  to  town. 
And  his  lips  lay  long  on  the  golden  head. 

And  the  dimpled  fist  that  was  hanging  down 
He  kissed;  and  kissed  where  upon  the  spread 

A  pink  palm  lay  Uke  a  crinkled  rose; 
And  he  kissed  the  lids  of  the  eyes  of  blue, 

And  she  dreamily  said  as  he  kissed  her  nose; 
"I  'ants  to  dit  in  Dad's  bed,  me  do." 

JUDD  MORTIMBB  LbWIR 


From  "Sing  the  South" 
Published  by  J.  V.  Dealy 
Company,  Houaton,  Texas 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

THE  CHILDREN'S  H0X7R 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Conies  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight. 

Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 
Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall. 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded, 

They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret. 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

K  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 

Their  arms  about  me  intwine. 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse  Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti. 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress. 

And  will  not  let  you  depart. 
But  put  yoH  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever. 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin. 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

H.  W.  LONQFEUiOW 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


FATHER 

Few  books  contain  more  beautiful  pictures  of  a 
Father's  love,  than  "Sonny" — a  charming  monologue, 
by  Ruth  McEmory  Stuart. 

ONNY  arrives  on  Christmas  night — just  such 
a  night  as  when  He  first  came,  to  bless  and 
comfort;  men  I  His  father  is  "on  his  knees 
in  piu-e  thankfulness" — "Christmas — a  boy — 
and  she  doing  well,"  he  exclaimed.  His  surprise  and 
possible  disappointment  that  Sonny  is  so  diminutive 
is  mitigated  by  the  reflection — "the  less  they  have  to 
contend  with,  at  the  start,  the  better."  He  falls*  into  a 
happy  sleep — sajong  "They's  angels  all  over  the  house 
and  their  robes  is  breshin'  the  roof."  Later — "for 
Sonny's  sake"  he  started  to  say  grace  at  table  and  left 
off  the  only  "ciiss  word"  which  was  "durn.' '  He  adds, 
"Maybe  I  ought  not  to  say  it, — but  I  Mibs  that  word 
yet."  He  intended  to  teach  Sonny  to  say  "Mama" 
first  but  was  overjoyed  when  he  voluntarily  said 
"Daddy."  No  sacrifice  was  considered  one  when  made 
for  HIS  sake.  To  induce  him  to  be  vaccinated,  parents, 
cook,  and  cats  were  ineffectual  martyrs.  He  would 
NOT  allow  it,  for  himself. 

When  his  spiritual  welfare  was  considered,  they  let 
him  select  the  church,  explaining — "what  we  was  after 
was  RIGHTEOUS  livin'  and  we  didn't  keer  much  which 
denomination  helped  us  to  it."  They  finally  selected 
the  Episcopal  church,  and  when  the  rector  said  "Name 
this  child,"  Sonny  called  out  "Deuteronomy  Jones, 
Senior."  The  father,  feeling  that  "he  spoke  his  heart's 
desire,"  had  him  thus  christened  and  wrote  it  with  a 
small  s  and  his  own  name  with  a  large  S  to  call  atten- 
tion to  their  relationship! 

He  admits  Sonny's  faults,  but  adds:  "Of  course  he's 
OURS."  He  says  "They  ain't  been  a  thing  I've  enjoyed 
as  much  as  my  sackerfices  on  account  of  Sonny's  ad- 
jercation.  Th'  ain't  a  patch  on  any  old  coat,  but 
seems  to  stand  for  some  advantage  to  him." 

"I  don't  keer  what  he  settles  on;  I  expect  to  take 
pride  in  the  way  he'll  do  it." 

When  his  wife  has  joined  "The  Choir  Invisible" — 
Sonny,  now  a  married  man,  tends  him  with  tender 
care,  kisses  him  night  and  morning,  and  the  seed  his 
unselfish  love  planted  has  blossomed  into  lovely  fruit. 

N.  S.  R. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

»>*■»*—  II  ^  II  —  »  Mill  ^  I  i^>»— ^  II  iM  I  Ml  TWBNTT-NINB  y^*^ 

FATHER'S  CHBISTMAS  BOX 

A  big  box  comes  at  Christmas  time 

From  Father's  sister  Nell; 
His  name  is  painted  on  the  top — 
"Handle  with  care"  as  well. 

We  stand  around  expectantly 

While  Father  gets  his  tools; 
He  pries  and  pokes,  he  thumps  and  pounds 

While  breakfast  slowly  cools. 

He  drops  the  hammer  on  his  toe, 

His  coat  tears  on  a  nail; 
But  finally  the  lid  comes  off — 

Poor  Father's  far  from  pale. 

A  brass  tea-pot  for  dear  Mamma, 

A  set  of  Scott  for  Dan, 
A  big  Noah's  ark  for  Reginald, 

A  ring  for  little  Anne. 

A  new  silk  dress  for  Grandmamma, 

Catnip  for  Kitty  Gray, 
A  pretty  apron  for  the  cook — 
"How  thoughtful!"  we  all  say. 

A  fine  new  leash  for  Danny's  dog, 

A  dress  for  sister's  doll, 
A  puzzle  for  the  child  next  door — 

How  she  remembers  all  I 

And  now  the  bottom's  all  but  reached — 
We  pull  out  baby's  blocks; 
"What's  Father's  gift?"  someone  inquires — 
"Oh,  Father— gets  the  box." 

R.  D.  MooRB 

A  FATHER'S  REQUEST 

And  when  thou  would  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 

Wat  thou  teach  her  to  say  "Fatherl" 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee. 

When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed. 
Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 

Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  nevermore  mayst  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble, 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

LoBD  Btron 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  OLD  PANTS 

■JirHE  artists  in  belles-lettres  do  a  fine  stunt, 
^*^  About  mothers  and  children  and  uncles  and  aunts 
In  quest  of  pet  themes,  in  the  course  of  their  hunt, 
Why  don't  they  examine  that  old  pair  of  pants? 

They'd  find  there  a  treasure — a  gold-mine  of  deeds; 

The  hero  who  wears  them's  a  busy  old  chap; 
By  him  the  home  fails  or  the  household  succeeds; 

In  domestic  geography  he's  on  the  map. 

He  found  a  sweet  girl  and  he  made  her  his  wife; 

He  builds  him  a  house;  digs  for  something  to  eat; 
To  him  the  ambition  and  pride  of  his  life, 

Is  to  see  her  well  dressed  and  their  children  look  neat 

With  meat  in  the  larder  and  bread  on  the  shelf. 
And  good  things  galore  for  his  family  so  dear, 

He  gives  little  heed  what  he  has  for  himself. 

But  he's  Santa  Glaus  'most  every  day  in  the  year. 

That  old  pair  of  pants,  if  they  cover  his  shanks, 
Will  answer  his  purpose — he's  not  very  proud; 

He's  fighting  for  loved  ones — sometimes  without  thanks, 
When  they  ought  to  be  singing  his  praises  out  loud. 

All  hail  to  the  husbands  and  fathers  so  good; 
Here's  a  health  to  them  all,  may  their  blessings 
advance; 
I'd  praise  them  still  higher  if  only  I  could — 
So,  here's  to  the  Knight  of  the  Old  Pair  of  Pants. 

J.  I.  Wolfe 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

^  M  II  ^  11  Mi  II  —  II  1 1I  M  II  M  II  —  II  —  I  —  n  ^  I     THIBTT-ONB     ►^^•Jl 

FATHER 

ATHER.     No  language  is  perfect  without  the 

word;  no  home  complete  without  the  relation; 

no  nation  safe  without  its  defense.     Father: 

The  hope  of  the  race;  the  safeguard  of  society; 

the  defense  of  all  things  good  and  pure. 

Father  is  a  synonym  for  love,  courage,  hope  and  help- 
fulness; for  strength,  intellect  and  victory.  No  word 
formed  by  human  tongue  means  so  much  to  the  world, 
and  none  has  been  so  woven  into  all  its  history.  From 
the  time  when  savage  men  fashioned  crude  weapons 
with  which  to  protect  their  homes  from  others  more 
savage,  to  the  present,  when  a  father's  wisdom  safe- 
guards his  loved  ones  and  his  foresight  provides  against 
a  time  of  need,  the  place  he  has  held  has  been  vmique. 

In  war  and  conflict  the  father  has  ever  been  most 
daring  and  courageous;  in  music,  art  and  letters  he 
has  been  supreme;  in  statesmanship  and  diplomacy 
his  prestige  has  been  undisputed;  in  making  the  history 
of  the  world  he  has  been  foremost. 

Without  attempting  to  usurp  the  place  that  mother- 
hood occupies —  a  place  bought  by  love,  sacrifice,  purity 
and  gentleness,  and  made  sacred  by  devotion  and 
saintliness — even  a  more  exalted  place  must  be  accorded 
to  fatherhood,  which  has  supplied  the  incentive  and 
prompted  the  ambition  for  the  epoch  makers  of  all  time. 

In  prosperity  a  father's  equipoise  shields  from  many 
unwise  and  harmful  things  and  in  adversity  it  is  a 
father's  wisdom  and  courage  that  saves  from  despair 
and  dissolution. 

In  times  of  peace,  when  problems  are  to  be  solved, 
fathers  are  chosen  for  the  task  and  when  the  clamor 
of  war  demands  the  service  of  men,  they  are  first  to 
respond. 

When  God  called  Abraham  from  obscurity  to  become 
the  progenitor  of  a  people  which  He  might  call  His  own, 
He  promised  that  he  should  be  "the  father  of  many 
nations."  When  the  psalmist  gave  expression  to  his 
conception  of  God's  love  for  mankind,  he  likened  it  to 
the  pity  of  a  father. 

When  Christ  attempted  to  portray  the  deepest  and 
most  abiding  love  of  humankind.  He  spoke  the  incom- 
parable parable  of  a  prodigal  son's  forgiveness  by  his 
father,  and  when  He  gave  the  World  an  ideal  prayer 
which  was  to  be  rep)eated  to  the  end  of  time,  He  pre- 
faced it  with  the  words:  "Our  Father." 

Orman  C.  Emert 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


FATHER. 

He  was  not  the  sort  of  father  that  you  read  about  in 

books; 
He  wasn't  long  on  langusige  and  he  wasn  t  strong  on 

looks. 
He  was  not  the  sort  of  father  that  you  hear  about  in 

plays — 
He  was  just  a  human  father,  sort  of  quiet  in  his  ways. 

Just  a  sort  of  family  father,  fairly  sound  in  wind  and 

limb, 
Always  ready  at    the    word  and  not  a  nasty  trick  or 

whim, 
Seldom  off  his  feed  and  never  had  to  be  turned  out  to 

graze. 
Safe  for  any  child  to    drive  and    broke    to    harness 

forty  ways! 

Steady  at  the  bit  was  father;  found  a  lot  of  fun  in 

working; 
Threw  his  weight  against  the  collar;  seemed  to  have 

no  time  for  shirking. 
Used  to  smile  and  say  the  feed-bin  kept  him  steady  on 

the  track; 
Safe  to    leave  him  without   hitching;  he'd  be  there 

when  you  came  back. 

No;  he  never   balked  at  working,  but  when  he  was 

through  it  once, 
Right  down  to  the  grass  waa  father,  with  the  children 

doing  stunts. 
Everyone  would  pile  upon  him  and  he'd  welcome  all 

the  pack. 
But  I'm  wondering,  after  playtime,  did  we  stay  there — 

on  his  back? 

Wasn't  strong  on  dissipation;  said  his  "gambol  on  the 

green" 
Was  to  fill  the  platter  quicker  than  the  kids  could  lick 

it  clean, 
And  the  next  best  game  he  knew  of  was  an  equal  one 

to  beat; 
It  was  keeping  leather  covers  up  to  the  supply  of  feet  I 

^ndl  his  tailor  never  told  him,  when  his  Sunday  coat 

was  fitted. 
That  his  wings  necessitated   wearing  shoulders   loose 

or  slitted. 
And  he  wasn't  any  martyr;  said  that  life    and    love 

were  good 
And  no  man  deserved  his  dinner  if  he  wouldn't  split 

the  wood. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

Alwajrs  on  the  job  was  father,  plugging  quiet-like  and 

strong, 
Never   making    any  noise,  but  helping  all  his  little 

world  along; 
And  to  think — Lord  I  ain't  it  funny  you  can  see  things 

years  and  years 
And  you  never  know  they've  been  there,  till  your  eyes 

are  bUnd  with  tears  I 

Quit  his  job  one  day  and  left  us,  smiling  as  he  went 

away; 
Eulogy  seems  all  so  foolish;  what  can  anybody  say? 
Seemed  like  even  in  his  leaving  he  was  saving  some 

one  bother; 
For  the  one  word  in  the  granite  which  is  over  him  is — 

FATHER. 

Edmund  Vance  Cooke. 

Not  in  Contest 

Written  expressly  for  Mb.  Woolard 


AN  UNUSUAL  CHUM. 

Henry  Blake's  father  goes  fishing  with  him, 
And  goes  in  the  creek,  so's  to  teach  him  to  swim; 
He  talks  to  him  just  like  they're  awful  close  chums 
And  sometimes  at  nine  he  helps  Henry  do  sums. 
And  once  he  showed  Henry  how  he  used  to  make 
A  basket  by  whittUng  a  peach  stone,  and  take 
The  bark  off  of  willows  for  whistles,  although 
He  hadn't  made  one  since  a  long  time  ago. 

Henry  Blake's  father  is  just  like  his  chum, 
And  when  he  goes  fishing  he  lets  Henry  come; 
He  fixes  two  seats  on  the  bank  of  the  brook, 
And  shows  Henry  how  to  put  worms  on  the  hook, 
And  sometimes  he  laughs  in  the  jolliest  way 
At  some  little  thing  he  hears  Henry  say. 
And  dips  up  his  drink  in  his  hat  Uke  you  do 
When  only  just  boys  go  a-fishing  with  you. 

Henry  Blake's  father  will  take  him  and  stay 
Somewhere  in  the  woods  for  a  half  holiday. 
And  wear  his  old  clothes  and  bring  home  a  sack 
Of  hick'ries  and  walnuts  to  help  Henry  crack; 
And  sit  on  a  dead  log  somewhere  in  the  shade 
To  eat  big  sandwiches  his  mother  has  made; 
And  Henry  Blake's  father,  he  don't  seem  as  though 
He's  more  than  his  uncle,  he  Ukes  Henry  so. 

J.  W.  Foley 

By  special  permission  of  Mb.  Folbt  . 
Not  m  Contest. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

^MB4  THIHTT-PODB    iiw  ii  ^  n  ■■  ii  ■■  ii  —  n  ■■  ih 

THE  THIRD  COMMANDMENT 


H 


ON  OR   thy  father  and  thy  mother — the  one 
commandment   to   which   rewarding   conse- 
quence is  attached — states  a  natural  law  of 
steadily  unfolding  meanings  in  the  light  of  our 
modem  understanding  of  man  and  his  world.     Long 
life,  vigor  and  prosperity,  for  nations  as  for  individuals, 
are  now  seen  to  be  actually  consequent  on  the  obser- 
vance of  this  law,  and  not  to  be  realized  otherwise. 
And  this  not  merely  as  fiat  or  favor  of  some  supernatural 
being;  but  as  certain  and  immutable  cause  and  effect, 
bound  up  in  man's  very  constitution.     The  investiga- 
tions of  such  men  as  Galton,  Weissman,  Mosso,  Lombroso 
and  Saleeby  in  the  great  field  of  heredity  and  race  culture 
furnish  striking  evidence  as  to  the  truth  of  this  view. 
Subsidence  of  the  sentiment  that  honors  fatherhood 
means  the  disappearance  from  modem  life  of  the  joy, 
the   wonder,   the   poetry   of   paternal   devotion   and 
filial  appreciation  that  belong  in  all  normal  and  genuine 
love  between  Father  and  Child.     With  the  loss  of  this 
deep  and  beautiful  emotion  and  its  warmth  and  color 
firing  the  heart  and  weaving  character,  go  most  of  the 
things  that  make  life  worth  living.    There  is  close 
connection  between  honor  to  father  and  mother  and 
lives  HONORABiiE  in  all  other  respects.    Solid  basis  have 
we  here  for  honoring  honor.     In  honor  for  parenthood, 
honoring  itself,  we  have  indispensable  beginning  for  the 
true-heartedness    and   right-mindedness   that    honor 
Love  and  Truth,  Justice  and  Right.     Honoring  Father 
and  Mother— and  one  is  not  truly  honored  without  the 
other — a  man  is  sure  to  honor  wife  and  children,  sisters 
and  brothers,  neighbors  and  friends,  home  and  country. 
Under  the  influence  of  the  Mother  Spirit,  man  has 
been  transformed  from  a  mere  fighting  animal  into  a 
Builder  and  Producer.     This  progress  marks  for  both 
men  and  women  an  approach  to  that  equilibrium  sought 
thru  age-long  struggle  between  the  forces  masculine  and 
feminine.     With  its  fuUer  attainment,  there  will  be  no 
more  war  between  nations,  the  energies  of  mankind 
being   given   wholly   and   joyously   to   dressing   and 
tending  this  Garden   of   EMen  we  call  Life.    Slowly 
but  surely.  Fatherhood,  in  the  large  human  sense  of  the 
word,  is  emerging  as  we  give  ourselves  to  the  arts  of 
peace.     Yet   the    Ideal   Father   waits   on   the    Ideal 
Mother.     For  it  is  the  heel  of  the  Woman  that  shall  at 
last  crush  the  head  of  the  serpent  of  Sensuality;  of  the 
seed  of  the  Woman  shall  be  born  the  World's  Deliver- 
ance. P^UL  Ttner 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

BIT  PA 

My  pa  he's  'ist  the  strongest  man  'at  ever  wuz,  I  guess, 
Cause  he  can  lift — why — he  can  lift  most  anything,  oh 

yes, 
He  lifts  MB  up,  away  up  high  and  holds  me  up  so  longl 
And  Ma  she  laughs  and  says  "Oh,  myl"  when  I  say 

"Ain't  he  strong  1" 

My  pa  he's  'ist  the  richest  man  in  this  here  town,  I  know 
'Cause  he  bought  me  some  bran'  new  pants  not  mor'n  a 

week  ago; 
He  says  it  takes  'ist  lots  of  cash  to  buy  new  pants  and 

sich, 
But  Ma  she  laughs  and  says,  "Oh,  myl"  when  I  say 

"Ain't  he  rich!" 

My  pa  he's  'ist  the  nicest  man  at  ever  lived.     You  see 
At  nighttime  when  I'm  most  wore  out  he's  awful  good 

to  me. 
He  rocks  me  slow  and  hums  a  tune  and  hugs  me  once  or 

twice. 
And  Ma  she  laughs  and  pats  my  head  when    I  say, 

"Ain't  he  nicel" 

Maud  Howland  Thomas 


THE  FATHEB 

I  saw  him  as  he  trudged  beyond  the  hedges, 
His  figure  tall  and  strong  beneath  his  years. 

Great-hearted,  sane,  and  grave  with  steady  purpose, 
Deep-eyed  as  one  who  thru  earth's  shadow  peers — 

His  homely  tale  'twere  his  to  read  who  ran 

As  forth  he  strode,  in  very  truth,  a  man. 

I  marked  upon  his  cheeks  the  winter  roses 

And  snowy  locks  up  from  his  brow  were  swept; 

He  plodded  toward  the  sunset  never  doubting 
That  warm  about  his  hearth  sweet  comfort  kept; 

With  simple  thanks  he  blest  his  humble  lot 

As  roadward  curled  the  smoke  above  his  cot. 

I  heard  brave  men  and  women  name  him  Sire, 
And  wisdom,  wisely  gained,  with  him  abode. 

Speak  not  of  empires,  thrones,  or  sounding  battle, 
Nor  yet  of  times  when  mighty  lordlings  strode 

'Mid  splendid  pomps  of  stately  ball  and  dome — 

He  labors  beet  who  builds  a  righteous  Home. 

Maude  De Verse  Newton 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

<THIBTT-BIZ>' 


ET  Bomething  be  said  of  Father.    Mother  is 

still  the  inner  sentinel  keeping  bright  the  altar 

fires  of  home;  but  it  is  Father  who  supplies 

the  fuel  and  stands  as  outer  guard  to  bar  the 

gate  against  all  violators  of  the  sacred  flame. 

It  is  Father  who  stands  between  the  home  world  and 
its  bitter  foes,  hunger  and  cold;  and  whether  his  weapon 
be  the  strong  right  arm  or  the  keen  brain,  the  true  heart 
holds  them  tireless  while  life  lasts, — and  woe  to  the  little 
kingdom  when  its  defender  falls  1 

He  emblazons  the  path  his  boy  must  tread;  and 
for  him  it  is  no  question  of  the  easier  way  or  shorter 
journey,  but  every  force  of  body,  mind  and  soul  must 
answer  to  his  need  who  feels,  "This  way  comes  my  son." 

He  is  the  sentinel  that  must  stand  between  his  daugh- 
ter and  unhappiness,  his  presence  or  his  memory  warning 
her  against  the  unclean,  the  untrue  and  the  weak;  and, 
for  her  sake,  he  strains  his  manhood  to  the  uttermost 
and  sets  hio  mark  so  high  that  he  who  measures  to  it 
must  be,  indeed,  a  man. 

He  is  to  his  children  the  earthly  type  of  the  Divine 
Father,  and  it  is  to  the  credit  of  faithful  fatherhood 
that  most  men  have  a  broad  and  strong  idea  of  their 
God. 

Then  let  us  pay  him  oiir  debt  of  reverent  love.  As 
we  drain  life's  cup  let  us  drink  it  to  him  worthily;  and 
when  with  failing  hand  we  break  the  glass,  may  there 
be  no  dregs  of  dishonor. 

May  the  life  he  gave  add  such  credit  to  the  name 
he  bore  that  it  shall  be  an  undying  eulogy  to  the  name 
of  Father  I 

Bessie  A.  Stanley 


UT  because  some  of  the  streams  were  deep  and 
strong,  and  his  legs  were  short  and  slender, 
and  his  ambition  was  even  taUer  than  his 
boots,  the  father  would  sometimes  take  him 
up  pick-a^-back,  and  wade  along  carefully  through  the 
perilous  places — which  are  often,  in  this  world,  the  very 
places  one  longs  to  fish  in.  So,  in  your  remembrance, 
you  can  see  the  little  rubber  boots  sticking  out  under 
the  father's  arms,  the  rod  projecting  over  his  head, 
and  the  bait  dangling  down  imsteadily  into  the  deep 
holes,  and  the  delighted  boy  hooking  and  playing  and 
basketing  his  trout  high  in  the  air.  How  many  of  our 
best  catches  in  life  are  made  from  some  one  else's 
shoulders  1 

Henky  Van  Dyke 
From  "Little  Rivera." 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

^1  ^  II  —  II  Mi  ■  ^  uiw  II  ^  II  ^>o^»o—  iiiM  II  ^  I  THIBTT-BBTBN  i  — 'i> 

TOn  PUT  NO  FLOWERS  ON  BIT  PAPA'S  OBAVE 

With  sable-draped  banners,  and  slow,  measured  tread, 

The  flower-laden  ranks  pass  the  gates  of  the  dead; 

And  seeking  each  mound  where  a  comrade's  form  rests, 

Leave  tear-bedewed  garlands  to  bloom  o'er  his  breast. 

Ended  at  last  is  the  labor  of  love; 

Once  more  through  the  gateway  the  saddened  lines  move. 

A  wailing  of  anguish,  a  sobing  of  grief, 

Falls  low  on  the  ear  of  the  battle-scarred  chief; 

Close  crouched  by  the  portals,  a  sunny-haired  child 

Besought  him  in  accents  which  grief  rendered  wild: 

"01  sir,  he  was  good,  and  they  say  he  died  brave — 
Why!  why  1  did  you  pass  by  my  dear  papa's  grave? 
I  know  he  was  poor,  but  as  kind  and  as  true 
As  ever  marched  into  the  battle  with  you — 
His  grave  is  so  humble,  no  stone  marks  the  spot, 
You  may  not  have  seen  it.     Oh,  say  you  did  not! 
For  my  poor  heart  will  break  if  you  knew  he  was  there, 
And  thought  him  too  lowly  your  offerings  to  share. 
He  didn't  die  lowly — he  poured  his  heart's  blood 
In  rich  crimson  streams,  from  the  top-crowning  sod 
Of  the  breastworks  which  stood  in  front  of  the  fight — 
And  died  shouting,  'Onward!  for  God  and  the  right!' 
O'er  all  his  dead  comrades  your  bright  garlands  wave. 
But  you  havn't  put  one  on  my  papa's  grave. 
If  Mamma  were  here — but  she  lies  by  his  side, 
Her  wearied  heart  broke  when  our  dear  papa  died." 

"Battalion!  file  left!  countermarch!"  cried  the  chief, 

"This  young  orphan'd  maid  hath  full  cause  for  her  grief." 

Then  up  in  his  arms  from  the  hot,  dusty  street, 

He  lifted  the  maiden,  while  in  through  the  gate 

The  long  line  repasses,  and  many  an  eye 

Pays  fresh  tribute  of  tears  to  the  lone  orphan's  sigh. 

"This  way,  it  is — here,  sir — right  under  this  tree; 
They  lie  close  together,  with  just  room  for  me." 
"Halt!  Cover  with  roses  each  lowly  green  mound — 
A  love  pure  as  this  makes  these  graves  hallowed  ground." 
"Oh!  thank  you,  kind  sir!  I  ne'er  can  repay 
The  kindness  you've  shown  little  Daisy  to-day; 
But  I'll  pray  for  you  here,  each  day  while  I  live, 
'Tis  all  that  a  poor  soldier's  orphan  can  give. 

"I  shall  see  Papa  soon,  and  dear  Mamma  too — 
I  dreamed  so  last  night,  and  I  know  'twill  come  true; 
And  they  will  both  Isless  you,  I  know,  when  I  say 
How  you  folded  your  arms  round  their  dear  one  to-day; 
How  you  cheered  her  sad  heart,  and  soothed  it  to  rest, 
And  hushed  its  wild  throbs  on  your  strong,  noble  breast ; 
And  when  the  kind  angels  shall  call  you  to  come, 
We'll  welcome  you  there  to  our  beautiful  home, 
Where  death  never  comes,  his  black  banners  to  wave, 
And  the  beautiful  flowers  ne'er  weep  o'er  a  grave." 

C.  E.  L.  HoLMss 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

1  THIKTT-KiaHT  i 


CANTATE  PATER-DOMINO 

THE  CHILD  lisps: 

"O,  Daddy,  dear,  I  am  tho  very  glad 

That  you  are  home  and  I  can  play  outthide. 

The  duthky  street  ith  dangerouth  and  wide — 
And  yet  I  want  to  play  there  very  bad. 

And  if  the  dark  thould  thettle  low  and  high. 
And  I  thould  feel  afraid  of  'Boogy-Boo,' 

I'm  thiire  that  you  would  come  if  I  thould  cry 
And  bring  me  thafely  to  the  houthe  with  you." 

THE  WOMAN  MUSES : 

"Brave  One,  with  tender  laughter  in  your  e3'^e8, 
My  Father  I  how  I  long  to  see  your  face — 
To  feel  the  shelter  of  your  strong  embrace 

And  hear  your  speech  from  joy  and  sorrow  wise. 
Dear,  when  I  stray  and  make  some  sad  mistake 

In  any  path  of  life  on  which  I  roam, 
Your  love  will  lend  a  hand  for  love's  dear  sake 

And  guide  my  faltering  footsteps  safely  home." 

THE  SOUL  prays: 

"Thou  most  high  God,  Heart — Father  of  us  all, 
Parent  of  time  and  of  each  wayward  life — 
Thou  who  in  peace  looks  down  upon  our  strife 
And  barkens  to  each  silent  inward  call; 

Oh,  when  the  morning  stars  we  may  not  see 
And  evening  shadows  roimd  our  faces  play. 

Take  each  worn  life  and  let  it  dwell  with  Thee 
In  sweeter  worlds,  forever  and  a  day!" 

Bessie  Mat  Bellman 


WHO  6IVETH  THIS  WOBIAN  TO  THIS  MAN? 

Woman?    No! — a  child,  his  daughter — 

Children  with  her  romp  and  play; 
Yet  they  ask  him  at  the  altar, 
"Who,  this  woman,  gives  away?" 

These  are  words  of  deepest  meaning; 
"Gives,"  O,  preacher,  didst  thou  say! 
Gift,  all  other  gifts  excelling, 
This,  the  father,  gives  away. 

Hushed  the  aisles  and  bare  the  altar, 

Faded  now  the  light  of  day — 
Midnight  shrouds  the  one  lamenting 

Who,  this  woman,  gave  away. 


By  p«rmiasion  of  Boston  Transcript. 


F.  H. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

{iiHiii  aaimiiiBHii^ii  H  I  ■    n  ^  n  ■■     ^  i  ■■  i    THIBTT-NINB    i  — ii> 

THE  mHEBITANCE 

I  am  but  one  of  the  countless  sires 

Whose  names  are  on  every  tongue; 
They  are  blazoned  by  myriad  funeral  pyres 

And  by  little  children  sung. 

For  ere  my  childhood  days  were  done 

My  father  led  me  where 
His  father's  father  had  led  his  son, 

To  the  hall  of  the  portraits  there. 

And  the  musty  canvasses  looked  down 

On  me  as  they  had  at  him, 
And  I  studied  with  care  each  painted  frown 

And  each  smile,  till  the  light  grew  dim. 

For  here  was  my  father's  rugged  sire 

And  he  who  was  sire  of  him, 
And  it  seemed  that  the  light  of  some  great  desire 

Burned  'neath  each  visage  grim. 

Then  my  father  spoke  of  the  tales  re-told 

That  his  father  had  told  to  him, 
And  I  saw  the  scheme  of  life  unfold 

And  life  filled  my  cup  to  its  brim. 

'Twas  then  that  I  came  to  learn  the  light 

That  glowed  in  my  father's  eyes, 
As  he  told  of  the  deeds  they  had  done  for  right. 

With  honor  their  only  prize. 

And  I  cried:  O,  Father,  I  too,  will  keep 

Thy  faith  and  the  faith  of  our  sires. 
That  my  children's  children  shall  never  weep 

For  the  evil  of  my  desires. 

And  so  I  will  pledge  my  life  to  you, 

And  my  sons'  when  God  blesses  me. 
And,  in  turn,  they  will  pledge  their  sons  to  be  true 

For  all  time  and  eternity. 

I  am  but  one  of  the  countless  sires 

Whose  names  are  on  every  tongue; 
They  are  blazoned  by  myriad  funeral  pyres 

And  by  little  children  sung, 

Susie  Sweet  GuiKBBSOn 


A  father  sees  his  children  as  God  sees  all  of  us;  be 
looks  into  the  very  depths  of  their  hearts;  he  knows 
their  good  intentions.  ^ 

BaIjZAC 


WYDU) 

\Y  dad  he  makes  the  slickeat  kite 
You  ever  saw,  by  jing! 
Why,  it  will  sail  clean  out  o'  sight 

When  I  let  out  the  string  1 
The  other  kids  they  come  to  me 

Fer  their  kite  patterns  now; 
An'  they're  as  glad  as  they  kin  be 

That  my  dad  knows  just  how. 

My  dad  kin  take  two  wheels  an'  make 

A  coaster  that  is  fine. 
The  other  kids  all  want  to  take 

Their  pattern  now  from  mine. 
An'  when  we  all  shde  down  a  hill, 

Why,  I  kin  pass  by  each 
As  though  they  all  was  standin'  still  1 

Say,  ain't  my  dad  a  peach? 

My  dad  kin  make  a  bow  that  sends 

An'  arrow  awful  high; 
You  orter  see  it  when  it  bends, 

An'  watch  that  arrow  fly! 
An'  now,  why,  every  kid  you  see 

Tries  hard  to  make  a  bow 
As  good  as  what  dad  made  fer  me. 

But  they  can't  do  it,  though! 

My  dad  kin  take  a  willow  stick, 

Before  the  bark  is  dry. 
An'  make  a  whistle  jest  as  slick 

As  any  that  you  buy. 
Gee,  but  the  kids  are  jealous  when 

I  toot  where  they're  at! 
They  all  conunence   a-wishin'  then 

They  had  a  dad  like  that! 

They's  nothin'  much  my  dad  can't  do 

If  he  makes  up  his  mind. 
An'  he  is  mighty  chummy,  too, 

One  of  the  bully  kind. 
Some  dads  would  yell,  "Oh,  go  an'  play; 

I'm  busy  as  kin  be!" 
But  my  dad  he  ain't  built  that  way! 

Not  on  your  life,  by  gee! 

E.  A.  Brininstool 
Not  sobmitted  in  contest. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

FIRST  FUOHT  OF  THE  FLEDGLING 

Your  mother  says  you  want  to  go 

Away  to  school — Sit  here  a  while — 
No,  never  mind  the  lights,  the  glow 

From  the  aimset  is  bright.     I'll  pile 
A  few  more  sticks  into  the  grate — 

I'm  chilly.     What,  you  don't  feel  cold? 
Where's  Mother?    She  said  not  to  wait? 

I  can't  beUeve  you've  grown  so  old. 

That's  right,  your  cheek  against  my  cheek — 

Dad's  little  bit  of  snuggling  girl  I 
'Twas  yesterday — or  just  last  week — 

You  used  to  come,  your  every  curl 
Windblown  and  tousled — rowdydow — 

And  get  your  dolls  and  little  stool 
And  play  about  my  feet.     And  now 

You  want  to  go  away  to  school. 

Yes,  you  can  go,  of  course  1  We  knew, 

Mother  and  I,  you'd  have  to  go — 
Planned  for  it,  too,  dear,  since  when  you 

Were  just  a  little  thing,  and  so 
We  put  something  away  each  week 

Out  of  my  earnings.     You  don't  know 
What  fim  it  was  for  us  to  peek 

At  that  account  and  watch  it  growl 

Sometimes,  dear,  it  meant  quite  a  squeeze 

To  bank  that  little  bit  for  you; 
Dad's  trousers  bagged  some  at  the  knees 

In  those  old  days,  and  Mother  knew 
What  it  meant  to  turn  an  old  dress 

And  make  it  do  another  year. 
How  young  we  were!  And  glad!   I  guess 

We  were  like  children,  pretty  near. 

There  isn't  much  for  me  to  say — 

We'll  want  you  to  write  us  a  lot, 
We'll  want  to  know  what  games  you  play, 

Your  friends,  your  tasks,  each  wish,  each 
thought — 
I'm  going  to  hunt  Mother  now — 

No,  don't  come  with  me,  not  now,  dear; 
We  planned  for  this  for  years — somehow, 

Though,  it  seems  different  now  it's  here. 

JUDD  MOBTIMKB  LbWU. 
Not  in  Contest 
Written  expressly  for  Mb.  Wooi;.aro 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  MY  FATHER 

ATHER  will  soon  reach  the  age  of  four-score 

years.     Every  time  I  return  to  the  Old  Home 

I  am  astonished  at  the  additional  lines  upon 

his  careworn  face  and  the  snowy  whiteness    of 

his  hair. 

Recently  when  I  was  spending  a  few  days  with  ray 
parents  I  was  impressed  as  I  noticed  Father's  tendency 
to  sit  alone  late  at  night  before  the  kitchen  fire.  After 
I  had  gone  to  bed  one  evening  I  was  awakened  at  a  late 
hour — it  was  past  midnight,  I  think — and,  looking  out 
into  the  adjoining  room  I  saw  him  sitting  alone  in  quiet 
contemplation,  his  withered  hands  folded  gently  across 
his  lap.  As  I  looked  closer  I  noticed  that  he  was  awake 
and  that  he  was  gazing  at  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fading  fire.  I  retired  again  but  could  not  sleep.  Con- 
tinuously this  thought  invaded  my  mind:  Would 
that  I  myself  could  to-night  retrace  the  memories  that 
have  passed  through  the  mind  of  my  aged  father. 
What  an  endless  panorama  of  life  it  must  have  been! 
What  a  shifting,  changing  scene,  depicting  every  joy, 
grief  and  sorrow  common  to  the  indigent  world  I 

Before  Father  passed  the  age  of  childhood,  both  of 
his  parents  had  died.  From  boyhood  to  manhood  he 
was  "hired  out."  He  served  as  a  private  soldier  in  the 
Civil  War.  In  the  early  day  he  came  West  and  here 
endured  all  of  the  privation  known  to  the  pioneer.  In 
the  midst  of  unfruitfxil  years  he  clothed  and  fed  thir- 
teen children.  Seven  times  he  stood  beside  an  open 
grave,  each  time  bravely  trying  to  comfort  the  heart- 
broken mother  in  the  midst  of  overwhelming  grief. 

I  have  never  heard  him  murmur  against  fate.  Al- 
though he  has  suffered  all  of  the  adversity  and  mis- 
fortune known  to  the  humble  poor,  I  am  sure  he  has 
not  complained  that  Life  has  been  unjust  to  him.  His 
was  a  time  when  fathers — all  of  them — labored  inces- 
santly. Every  day  for  them  was  a  day  of  work,  re- 
quiring courage  of  heart  and  strength  of  arm. 

A  Mighty  Generation,  of  which  Father  is  a  small  part, 
sits  silently  in  the  shadows  of  swiftly  declining  years, 
calmly  awaiting  the  twilight  and  Evening  Star.  Their 
humble  lives  were  all  service;  their  noble  work  is  done. 
Our  feeble  words  of  praise  can  never  do  them  justice. 
In  their  presence  homage  is  valueless  and  our  highest 

tributes  fail. 

Louis  Allen 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

FOBTT-THREI 


TO  MT  FATHER 

Alas!  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power, 

Whose  fearful  praise  I  sang,  would  try  me  thus 

Before  the  strain  was  ended.     It  must  cease — 

For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 

The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 

Ofifered  me  to  the  Muses.     Oh,  cut  off 

Untimely!  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength. 

Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search, 

And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 

Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 

To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 

And,  last,  thy  life.     And  therefore,  when  the  earth 

Received  thee,  tears  were  in  imjaelding  eyes 

And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 

Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned  pale 

When  thou  wert  gone.     This  faltering  verse,  which  thou 

Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 

To  offer  at  thy  grave — this —  and  the  hope 

To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 

A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 

As  of  an  enemy's  whom  they  forgive 

As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore,  thou 

Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps — 

Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief  sleep 

Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 

Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust.    _ 

Bryant 
♦»-~«> 

A  FATHER'S  LOVE 

RONDEAU. 

A  father's  love,  that  in  our  childhood's  years 
Protects  whene'er  some  threatening  form  appears, 
Directs  our  footsteps  on  their  upward  way 
Lest  into  brambles  wild  their  course  may  stray — 
From  every  path  each  thorn  and  danger  clears. 

Through  youth  no  faith  to  us  so  strong  adheres. 
No  trust  so  staunch  our  flagging  spirit  cheers; 
In  darkest  night  still  shines  that  beckoning  ray — 
A  father's  love  I 

In  days  mature  when  fickle  fortune  veers, 
When  trial  and  burden  lay  their  weight  of  tears, 
A  haven  safe  to  rest  from  our  dismay — 
What  art  can  our  great  debt  to  thee  repay, 
Blest  sharer  of  life's  toll  of  joy  and  fears, 
A  father's  love! 

Not  in  Cont«t  ChaRLES  MoREAU   HaRGBR 

Written  expressly  for  Mb.  Woolabo. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

T1HERE  was  once  in  a  Scottish  family  a  little 
boy  who  was  very  ill.  The  doctor  carae  and 
left  some  bitter  medicine.  The  child  utterly 
refused  to  let  it  touch  his  lips  and  the  poor 
mother  was  beside  herself  because  she  was  between  two 
perils.  It  was  dangerous  for  the  child  to  be  excited  and 
equally  dangerous  for  him  to  do  without  the  medicine. 
The  mother  sat  down  and  cried.  Presently  a  little 
voice  piped  up  in  the  bed,  "Dinna  greet,  Mither. 
Fayther'U  be  home  sune  and  he'll  gar  me  take  it."  The 
little  chap  knew  that  in  Father  was  invested  authority, 
and  that  while  he  could  resist  Mother,  he  would  have  to 
obey  when  Father  came  home. 

Not  only  in  holding  the  balance  of  power  is  Father 
useful  and  indispensible  in  the  home.  Many  a  time  a 
wailing  infant  hushes  itself  to  rest  when  the  strong  arms 
of  Father  enfold  it.  Children  repose  with  entire  trust 
in  the  love  and  strength  of  Father  as  in  the  gentleness 
and  sweetness  of  Mother.  A  home  without  both  parents 
is  only  a  half  a  home.  To  bring  children  up  as  they 
ought  to  be,  Father  and  Mother  are  equally  necessary  and 
equally  potential.  All  honor  to  the  self-denial  and  self- 
sacrifice  of  hard-working  fathers  who  set  before  their 
children  an  ideal  of  honor,  integrity  and  true  manli- 
ness, of  chivalry  and  devotion,  and  who  bring  their 
children  up  in  the  fear  of  God. 

Margaret  E.  Sangbter 

Written  expressly  for 
Mb.  Woolabd. 

TO  A  USURPER 

Aha!  a  traitor  in  the  camp, 

A  rebel  strangely  bold, — 
A  lisping,  laughing,  toddling  scamp. 

Not  more  than  four  years  old! 

To  think  that  I,  who've  ruled  alone 

So  proudly  in  the  past. 
Should  be  ejected  from  my  throne 

By  my  own  son  at  last! 

He  trots  his  treason  to  and  fro. 

As  only  babies  can. 
And  says  he'll  be  his  mamma's  beau 

When  he's  a  "gweat,  big  man!" 

You  stingy  boy!  you've  always  had 

A  share  in  Mamma's  heart; 
Would  you  begrudge  your  poor  old  dad 

The  tiniest  little  part? 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

That  mamma,  I  regret  to  see, 

Inclines  to  take  your  part, — 
As  if  a  dual  monarchy 

Should  rule  her  gentle  heart  1 

But  when  the  years  of  youth  have  sped. 

The  bearded  man,  I  trow. 
Will  quite  forget  he  ever  said 

He'd  be  his  mamma's  beau. 

Renounce  your  treason,  little  son. 

Leave  Mamma's  heart  to  me; 
For  there  will  come  another  one 

To  claim  your  loyalty. 

And  when  the  other  comes  to  you, 

God  grant  her  love  may  shine 
Through  all  your  life,  as  fair  and  true 

As  Mamma's  does  through  minel 

From  "A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse"     EuGBNB  FlMiD 
Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Copyright  1889,  by  Eugene  Field. 

THE  LITTLE  CHAP'S  FAITH 
It's  a  comfort  to  me  in  life's  battle 

When  the  conflict  seems  going  all  wrong. 
When  I  seem  to  lose  every  ambition 

And  the  current  of  Ufe  grows  too  strong, 
To  think  that  the  dusk  ends  the  warfare. 

That  the  worry  is  done  for  the  night 
And  the  little  chap  there  at  the  window, 

Beheves  that  his  daddy's  all  right. 

In  the  heat  of  the  day  and  hurry 

I'm  prompted  so  often  to  pause, 
While  my  mind  strays  away  from  the  striving, 

Away  from  the  noise  and  applause. 
The  cheers  may  be  meant  for  some  other; 

Perhaps  I  have  lost  in  the  fight; 
But  the  little  chap  waits  at  the  window, 

Believing  his  daddy's  all  right. 

I  can  laugh  at  the  downfalls  and  failure; 

I  can  smile  at  the  trials  and  the  pain; 
I  can  feel  that,  in  spite  of  the  errors, 

The  struggle  has  not  been  in  vain. 
If  fortune  will  only  retain  me 

That  comfort  and  solace  at  night, 
When  the  little  chap  waits  at  the  window, 

Believing  his  daddy's  all  right. 

Louis  E.  Thatbb 

Kind  permission  of  Saturday  Evening  Post. 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

I  rOBTT-SIX  I 


FATHER 

Oft  in  the  dark,  when  childish  fears  would  chill  me, 
And  I  would  grope  in  awesome  dreams  astray, 

My  father's  hand  with  con6dence  would  fill  me, 
My  father's  voice  would  drive  the  ghosts  away. 

In  later  days,  when  I  was  worn  and  weary, 
And,  panting,  paused,  to  rest  me  in  the  shade, 

He  called  to  me;  his  tones  were  strong  and  cheery. 
And  I  went  forward,  calm  and  unafraid. 

Whenever  life  was  dark  and  grim  and  full  of  sorrow. 
Whenever  skies  were  starless,  bleak  and  gray. 

My  father  spoke  of  brighter  scenes  to-morrow, 
And  led  me  from  the  tangles  of  to-day. 

And  when  the  shades  of  death's  dark  night  are  falling, 

And  I  can  hear  the  wash  of  Styx's  swell. 
It  may  be  that  I'll  hear  my  father  calling: 
"Come  on,  my  lad!  Fear  not,  for  all  is  well!" 

Not  in  Contest  WaLT  MaSON 

Written  expressly  for  Mr.  Woolaed 


A  FATHER  READING  THE  BIBLE 

'Twas  early  day,  and  sunlight  stream'd 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room. 
That  hush'd,  but  not  forsaken,  seem'd 

Still,  but  with  naught  of  gloom. 
For  there,  serene  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  feU  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright, 

On  his  gray  holy  hair. 
And  touched  the  page  with  tenderest  light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there  1 
But  oh!  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm  benignant  eye; 
Some  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  inmiortality! 
Some  martyr's  prayer,  wherein  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives: 
While  every  feature  said — "I  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives!" 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ers weeping  death. 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt? 
Oh  I  blest  be  those  fair  girls,  and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt  I 

Felicia  Dorethba  Hemans 


FATHER'S  CHAIR 

It  was  my  stronghold  in  the  days 

When  I,  coaxed  newly  down 
From  love's  fair  realm,  assumed  the  ways     ' 

Of  one  who  wears  a  crown. 
Though  homage  leal,  and  servile  mien 

I  claimed  with  regal  air. 
None  might  depose  the  tiny  queen 

Whose  throne  was  Father's  chair. 

At  night,  when  Winter's  fingers  beat 

The  panes  with  spiteful  ire, 
I  loved  to  watch  the  gobUns  fleet 

A  frisking  in  the  fire; 
While  Father  thrilled  me  with  the  lore 

Of  vaUant,  knightly  quests 
They  dared,  who  ladies'  tokens  wore 

Upon  their  gleamy  crests. 

A  form  with  hungry  arms  once  hung 

Above  my  fevered  bed. 
To  Father,  terrified,  I  clung; 

All  pitiful,  he  said, 
"My  precious  pet,  to  Father's  chair 

It  cannot  find  the  way." 
His  tender  strength  and  yearning  care 

The  specter  kept  at  bay. 

The  years  that  strewed  my  way  with  flowers. 

To  him  were  void  and  drear. 
And  laden  with  the  wistful  hours 

Of  those  whose  age  is  sear. 
Sometimes  when  twihght  shades  enfold 

His  shabby,  vacant  chair, 
Pathetic,  patient  as  of  old, 

I  see  him  sitting  there. 

Maroarbt  Pbbkins 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

roBTT-Bioar 


WHEN  DADDIE  CALLS  BIE  "DEABDS" 

There  is  never  a  trial  or  so  great  a  care, 

There  is  never  a  frown  so  weary, 

But  the  heaviest  load  seems  light  to  bear 

When  I  hear  his  laugh  so  cheery; 

When  I  see  his  face 

And  I  hear  his  voice — 

When  Daddy  calls  me  "Dearie." 

There  is  never  a  hill  on  the  road  so  steep, 

There  is  never  so  hard  a  theorj-^; 

There  is  never  a  pit  beyond  so  deep, 

But  his  face  is  ever  as  merry; 

It  will  always  beguile 

Be  a  path  for  a  smile — 

When  Daddy  calls  me  "Dearie." 

There  is  never  a  shadow  when  night's  drawing  nigh, 

Makes  me  fear  of  To-morrow's  query. 
There  is  never  a  trouble  to  come  bye  and  bye. 
That  makes  the  outlook  dreary; 
Soon  storms  are  past 
Trials  cannot  last — 
When  Daddy  calls  me  "Dearie." 

Katherinb  Jackson 


WHAT  SORT  OF  A  FATHER  ARE  TOU? 

What  sort  of  a  father  are  you  to  your  boy? 

Do  you  know  if  your  standing  is  good? 
Do  you  ever  take  stock  of  yourself  and  check  up 

Your  accounts  with  your  boy  as  you  should? 

Do  you  ever  reflect  on  your  conduct  with  him? 

.^re  you  all  that  a  father  should  be? 
Do  you  send  him  away  when  you're  anxious  to  read? 

Or  let  him  climb  onto  your  knee? 

Is  a  book  more  important  to  you  than  his  talk; 

Do  you  find  that  his  chatter  annoys? 
Would  you  rather  be  quiet  than  have  him  about? 

Do  you  send  him  away  with  his  toys? 

Have  you  time  to  bestow  on  the  boy  when  he  comes 
With  his  questions —  to  tell  him  the  truth? 

Or  do  you  neglect  him  and  leave  him  alone 
To  work  out  the  problems  of  youth? 

Do  you  ever  go  walking  with  him  hand  in  hand? 

Do  you  plan  Uttle  outings  for  him? 
Does  he  ever  look  forward  to  romping  with  you, 

Or  are  you  eternally  grim? 

What  memories  pleasant  of  you  will  he  have 
In  the  years  that  are  certain  to  come? 

Will  he  look  back  on  youth  as  a  season  of  joy, 
Or  an  age  that  was  woefully  glum? 


DEAR     OLD      FATHER 

»3i  M  II  M  I  M  II  ^  [  ^  n  ■■  111  I]  M  II  Ti  Ml  ]  M  I    FORTT-NrtOl    »«»<^ 

Come,  father,  reflect  I     Does  he  know  you  to-day 

And  do  you  know  him  as  you  should? 
Is  gold  80  important  to  you  that  you  leave 

It  to  chance  that  your  boy  will  be  good? 

Take  stock  of  yourself  and  consider  the  lad, 
Your  time  and  your  thought  are  his  due; 
How  would  you  answer  yoiu-  God  should  He  ask, 
"What  sort  of  a  father  are  you?" 


Anon. 


HEBFATHEB 


A  bright  wood  fire  sends  its  fitful  light 
On  a  father  and  daughter,  huddling  tight 

In  an  old  arm  chair — 
The  curly  head  on  the  faithful  breast , 
And  the  rosy  cheeks  in  their  sheltered  nest. 
They  two  alone.    The  world  shut  out, 
Father  and  daughter  alone  in  their  love, 
Wife  and  mother  in  Heaven  above. 
"Tell  me  a  story,  Papa,  please, — 
Tell  me  a  story  of  stormy  seas! 
Of  winds  that  blow  with  an  icy  zest, 
Yet  cannot  'disturb  the  sparrow's  nest.' 
Of  your  Huguenot  parents  that  liv'd  in  a  cave, 
And  found  in  their  youth  a  martyr's  grave. 
O,  Papa,  dearl  it  makes  me  cry 
When  we  are  alone — ^just  you  and  II 
But  tell  it  to  me  I" 

So  the  tale  was  told  of  Scotland's  hills — 

Of  the  bonnie  lock,  and  the  dancing  rills — 

Of  the  purple  heather,  and  yeUow  gorse 

That  swayed  and  bent  with  the  storm  king's  force — 

Of  the  brave,  brave  souls  that  left  their  home 

For  the  land  where  the  exiled  ever  come. 

The  curly  head  dropped  lower  down, 

The  soft  little  arms  round  his  neck  were  thrown. 

The  hot  salt  tears  were  wiped  away, 

And  the  darling  child  in  slumber  lay — 

Her  father's  voice  she  heard  in  her  sleep 

Asking  HIS  Father  above  to  keep 

His  dear  little  child  from  danger  and  sin 

That  the  heavenly  gates  she  might  enter  in. 

The  fire  burned  low — the  clock  rang  out. 

Then  silence  came,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a 

sacred  presence, 
As  father  and  child  in  slumber  lay 
In  dreams  as  sweet  as  a  summer's  day. 
So,  side  by  side  through  the  world  they  went — 
The  golden  curls,  and  the  silver  gray  I 
Side  by  side  they  lie  asleep — but  when  shadows  gather; 
They  are  safe  in  the  arms  of  their  Heavenly  Father  1 

Mart  C.  Todd 


FATHER 

(Eulogy  pronounced  by  a  noted  criminal  whose  better  nature 
was  stirred  by  the  judge's  reference  to  the  coodemned  man's 
father.) 

H""  lAVE  I  "no  respect  for  my  father?" — Wait  a 
I  moment,  Judge.  I  know  I  am  a  sinner  and 
considered  to  be  a  heartless,  inhuman  criminal, 
willing  to  stoop  to  almost  any  depth  of  iniquity 
to  satisfy  the  human  craving  for  that  God-of-all-the- 
Earth,  that  metal  with  the  strangely-captivating  tinkle 
and  golden  glitter  which  bears  upon  its  brow  the 
motto,  "In  God  We  Tnist."  The  judgment  has  been 
pronoimced  by  the  jury  and  is  being  reiterated  by  the 
general  public  from  whose  presumptuous  decree,  there 
seems  to  be  no  earthly  appeal.  But  Judge,  I  have  a 
heart  with  a  human  affection  and  a  soul  God-given.  And 
as  thou  art  thy  father's  son,  as  thou  hast  a  heart  filled 
with  love  for  thy  father,  I  would  have  you  spare  the 
heart  within  this  weak  and  sin-stained  frame  the  torture 
of  the  insinuation  of  that  interrogation. 

My  Father!  How  the  memory  of  his  uprightness,  his 
tender  sympathy,  and  his  paternal  kindness  has  ever 
twinkled  upon  the  horizon  of  my  existence  as  if  to 
illuminate  the  darkness  of  my  soul  and  enable  me  to 
read  there  the  purpose  of  my  existence!  I  see  him  in 
fancy  now  approaching  the  Gate  of  Mystery  just  at  the 
end  of  the  Highway  of  Life;  upon  his  brow  a  furrow  of 
care,  made  doubly  deep  by  the  ungrateful — unthinking 
— child's  youthful  follies;  upon  his  head  a  silvered  hair 
for  each  of  the  innumerable  burdens  borne  unflinchingly 
for  the  sorrows  endured  in  that  silent  grief  which  pass- 
eth  all  understanding,  and  for  pains  suffered  with  that 
patience  which  they  alone  possess  who  deny  themselves 
that  others  may  enjoy;  upon  his  hands  the  scars  of  toil, 
drudgerized  by  being  denied  that  appreciation  and 
encouragement  for  which  his  heart  yearned;  upon  his 
breast  the  jewels  of  merit,  earned  by  the  cheerful  giving 
of  a  life  of  service  to  those  who  knew  him  not. 
Such  was  my  Father! 

Fi£U>  Smith 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

"FIFTT-ONK  ►^»«»3» 


ONCERNING  the  influence  and  responsibility 
of  the  mother,  much  has  been  said.  For  her 
encouragement  and  guidance  in  the  carrying 
out  of  ideals  for  the  training  of  children, 
countless  mothers'  organizations  have  been  formed,  at 
the  regular  meetings  of  which  no  effort  is  spared  to 
secure  expression  and  help  from  minds  richly  developed 
along  child-study  lines. 

That  such  aid  should  be  provided  for  mothers  is  right. 
They  need  it.  But  what  of  father?  Is  he  receiving 
sufficient  attention?  Why  is  he  so  rarely  invited  to  at- 
tend the  mothers'  meetings?  Does  the  mother  bear 
alone  the  responsibility  of  properly  building  the  charac- 
ter of  the  children,  and  of  making  home  happy,  or 
should  father  share  these  privileges  with  her? 

Is  not  the  home  a  type  of  heaven  on  earth,  and  is  not 
home  what  both  father  and  mother  make  it?  Does 
not  the  father  stand  as  much  in  need  of  helpful  aid  as 
does   the   mother? 

It  is  said  that  mothers,  working  through  their  or- 
ganizations, have  been  instrumental  in  bringing  about 
wonderful  reforms  in  educational  methods.  If  mothers 
working  by  themselves,  have  been  able  to  do  so  much, 
what  might  they  not  accomplish  if  supported  by  the 
aid  and  counsel  of  the  fathers?  Would  there  not  be 
greater  strength  in  a  Parents'  Congress  than  in  a 
Mothers'  Congress? 

It  is  a  mistake  to  leave  the  father  out  of  counsels  so 
important.  It  should  be  a  great  object  of  organization 
to  teach  the  father  and  the  mother  how  best  to  work 
together  as  a  well-mated  team. 

Luther  Burbank  declares  that  scientific  ideas  similar 
to  those  which  have  been  successfully  employed  in  the 
development  of  plant  life  may  be  applied  to  the  training 
of  children.  He  says  that  plants  and  trees  respond  to 
the  influence  of  environment,  but  children  are  infinitely 
more  responsive  to  such  influences.  That  whenever 
fathers,  as  well  as  mothers,  recognize  these  realties  in 
the  realm  of  human  life,  and  begin  to  apply  scientific 
principles  to  the  training  of  children,  then  humanity 
will  enter  upon  an  improved  stage  of  existence. 

To  learn  how  to  create  proper  environment  is  just  as 
important  to  fathers  as  it  is  to  mothers,  and  unless  both 
can  work  together  the  best  results  can  not  be  hoped  for. 

Has  father  been  kept  too  much  in  obscurity?     If  so 

let  us  bring  him  forward,  recognize  him,  and  give  his 

light  a  chance  to  shine. 

Lid  A  H.  Habdt 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

IDEAL  HUSBANDS  AND  WIVES 

^^  |UT  the  husband  in  his  turn  should  find  out  cor- 
la  I  tain  laws  to  regulate  his  treatment  of  his  wife, 
as  one  who  entered  the  house  of  her  husband 
to  share  his  children  and  his  life,  and  to  leave 
him  a  progeny  destined  to  bear  the  names  of  her  hus- 
band's parents  and  her  own.  And  what  in  the  world 
could  there  be  more  holy  than  these  ties?  Or  what  is 
there  about  which  a  man  in  his  sound  sense  could  strive 
more  earnestly  than  to  beget  the  children  who  shall 
hereafter  nurse  his  declining  years,  from  the  best  and 
most  praiseworthy  of  wives;  for  they  are  to  be,  as  it 
were,  the  best  and  most  pious  preservers  of  their  father 
and  mother,  and  guardians  of  the  entire  family.  For 
it  is  probable  that  they  will  turn  out  good,  if  they  have 
been  reared  uprightly  by  their  parents  in  the  habitual 
practise  of  what  is  just  and  holy;  but  if  the  contrary 
should  be  the  case,  they  will  suffer  the  loss  themselves. 
For  unless  parents  afford  their  children  a  fit  pattern  of 
life,  they  will  leave  them  an  obvious  excuse  to  quote 
against  themselves.  And  this  is  to  be  feared,  that  if 
they  have  not  lived  well,  their  sons  will  disregard  them, 
and  neglect  them  in  their  old  age. 

Abistotle 


HE  rod  was  a  reward,  yet  not  exactly  of  merit. 
It  was  an  instrument  of  education  in  the  hand 
of  a  father  less  indiscriminate  than  Solomon, 
who  chose  to  interpret  the  text  in  a  new  way, 
and  preferred  to  educate  his  child  by  encouraging  him 
in  pursuits  which  were  harmless  and  wholesome,  rather 
than  by  chastising  him  for  practices  which  would  likely 
enough  never  have  been  thought  of  had  they  not  been 
forbidden.  The  boy  enjoyed  this  kind  of  father  at 
the  time,  and  later  he  came  to  imderstand,  with  a  grate- 
ful heart,  that  there  is  no  richer  inheritance  in  all  the 
treasury  of  imearned  blessings.  For,  after  all,  the 
love,  the  patience,  the  kindly  wisdom  of  a  grown  man 
who  can  enter  into  the  perplexities  and  turbulent  im- 
pulses of  a  boy's  heart,  and  give  him  cheerful  com- 
panionship, and  lead  him  on  by  free  and  joyful  ways 
to  know  and  choose  the  things  that  are  pure  and  lovely 
and  of  good  report,  make  as  fair  an  image  as  we  can 
find  of  that  loving,  patient  Wisdom  which  must  be 
above  us  all  if  any  good  is  to  come  out  of  oiu:  childish 
race. 

Henbt  Van  Dtke 
From  "Little  Riv«8" 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

FATHER 

Who  always  calls  you  "William," 

When  the  feUers  call  you  "Bill?" 
Who  says  when  he  was  your  age, 

He  had  three  times  your  will? 
Who  makes  a  fuss  about  the  noise 

About  your  rough  and  tumble  ways. 
Yet  stands  g\iard  like  a  monitor 

Through  all  your  childhood  days? 
That's  Father  1 

Who  says  when  you're  off  to  college 

That  you  have  not  any  brains? 
That  you  never  think  of  study. 

That  it's  nothing  much  but  games  I 
Who  makes  an  awful  holler 

When  the  quarter's  bills  are  due, 
Yet  thinks  deep  down  within  his  heart, 

There  is  no  one  just  like  you? 
That's  Father! 

Who  says  you  are  just  the  limit 

When  the  girls  you're  off  to  see, 
That  you  talk  of  nothing  but  your  clothes 

And  some  confoimded  "tea," 
That  you  smoke  and  drink  and  swear 

Enough  to  kill  a  decent  man? 
Yet  swells  with  pride  when  he  says,  "My  Son," 

Now  beat  it  if  you  can — 
That's  Father! 

So  on  Life's  stormy  voyage. 

No  wave  can  him  o'erwhelm; 
He  never  gets  much  calcium. 

But  is  always  at  the  helm. 
He  is  only  just  "the  governor," 

Of  course  he'll  "come  across;" 
But  did  you  ever  stop  and  think 

How  Uttle  you'd  get  if  you  lost 
That  Father? 

Jessica  Pabkbb 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

WAITING 

On  summer  Saturday's  long  afternoon 

I  used  to  climb,  barefoot,  one  thronelike  knoll, 
Soliloquizing:  "Father's  coming  soon." 

The  gray  pike  billowed  eastward  like  a  scroll 
And  vanished  in  the  apex  of  a  hill 

One  world-long  mile  away;  around  me  played 
The  shifting  sunbeams — magically  still. 

Tiptoeing  from  each  ever-lengthening  shade. 

I  knew  that  when  he  crept  into  my  ken 

Above  the  hillbrink  I  should  know  the  span — 
White-stockinged  bay,  head-tossing  gray;  and  then 

The  strong,  famihar  figure  of  the  man. 
I'd  know  them — know  theml  Leaping  with  their  joy 

My  swift  feet  from  my  cairn  would  take  me  down — 
A  care-free,  zephyr-hearted,  eager  boy. 

To  welcome  home  my  father  from  the  town. 

Once  on  a  time  he  went  away  again; 

Perhaps  the  sun  shone,  but  we  could  not  see. 
I  have  not  climbed  that  little  knoll  since  then, 

For  Father  is  not  coming  home  to  me. 
Somewhere  he  waits  upon  a  sun-kissed  hill 

And  softly  says:  "My  boy  is  coming  soon." 
He'll  know  me  from  afar — I  know  he  will! — 

When,  world-tired,  I  trudge  home,  some  afternoon. 

Bv  Permission  of  STRICKLAND  W.  GiLULAN 

The  Ladies  Home  Journal. 


THE  SINGING  OF  THE  OLD  SONG 

My  dear  little  girl  in  the  evening. 
Climbs  to  her  place  on  my  knee, 

And  says  to  me  softly;  "O,  Papa, 
Will  'oo  sing  'NelUe  Gray'  to  me?" 

Then  I  think  of  the  days  departed — 
The  first  time  I  heard  the  old  song — 

I  sat  on  the  knee  of  my  father, 
A  little  chap,  sturdy  and  strong. 

And  he,  in  the  full  prime  of  manhood. 
With  resonant  voice  strong  and  clear, 

Sang  the  words  of  that  old-time  ballad — 
His  voice  and  his  tone  I  yet  hear. 

I've  since  heard  the  music  of  masters 
Where  gathered  the  worshipful  throng, 

But  naught  was  to  me  e'er  so  lovely. 
As  was  then  that  simple,  old  song 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

He  sang  with  no  voice  of  rare  culture, 

Scant  knowledge  of  music  had  he; 
But  then  he  was  greatest  of  all  men — 

And  sweetest  of  singers — to  mel 

Long,  long  has  my  dear  father  slumbered 

'Neath  the  sunken  mound  on  the  hill, 
And  yet  from  a  silence  imbroken 
He  speaks  and  he  sings  to  me  still  t 

And  oft-times  when  quiet  enfolds  me — 
I  could  hear  a  pin  strike  the  floor  1 — 

I  can  see  him  and  hear  him  yet  singing, 
As  he  sang  in  the  days  of  yore  I 

And  I  sing  with  tear-drops  soft  flowing — 
'Tis  dusk,  and  sweetheart  does  not  seel — 

And  trust  when  she  sings  to  her  children 
She  will  tenderly  think  of  mel 

Amanda  Dobbins 

FATHER— THE  PIONEER 

Sky  blue  and  tree  a-bloom, 

And  all  things  fair  for  me. 
With  all  the  years  of  toil  that  made  this  land 

A  memory. 

And  what  a  memory  of  those  years  that  were  I 
I  would  that  I  could  paint  a  picture  true, 

And  catch  the  lights  and  shadows  of  those  years 
That  he  lived  through! 

A  barren  plain  a-glimmer  in  the  sim, 

The  heat-waves  burning  up  the  scorched  grass, 
The  lonely  settler  in  his  meagre  home. 

The  hopes  that  pass. 

A  barren  plain  all  piled  with  drifted  snow. 

The  blizzard's  biting  blast  across  the  land — 

Oh,  winter-life  was  hard  those  years  ago 
For  settler  band  I 

Still  straight  and  strong  and  hale,  a  strength  to  all, 
Father  is  living  life's  late  afternoon — 

Awaiting  sunset  and  the  evening  star 
That  beckons  soon. 

Sky  blue  and  tree  a-bloom. 

And  all  things  fair  for  me 
Since  father  made  the  burdens  of  this  land 

A  memory.  Mablb  Chablbb 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


WHEN  FATHER  CARVES  THE  DUCK 

We  all  look  on  with  anxious  eyes 

When  Father  carves  the  duck, 
And  Mother  almost  always  sighs 

When  Father  carves  the  duck; 
Then  all  of  us  prepare  to  rise 
And  hold  our  bibs  before  our  eyes, 
And  be  prepared  for  some  surprise, 

When  Father  carves  the  duck. 

He  braces  up  and  grabs  the  fork 

Whene'er  he  carves  the  duck. 
And  won't  allow  a  soul  to  talk, 

Until  he  carves  the  duck. 
The  fork  is  jabbed  into  the  sides, 
Across  the  breast  the  knife  he  slides 
While  every  careful  person  hides 

From  flying  chips  of  duck. 

The  platter's  always  sure  to  slip 

When  Father  carves  a  duck, 
And  how  it  makes  the  dishes  skip; 

Potatoes  fly  amuck. 
The  squash  and  cabbage  leap  in  space. 
We  get  some  gravy  in  our  face, 
And  Father  mutters  Hindoo  grace 

Whene'er  he  carves  a  duck. 

We  then  have  learned  to  walk  around 

The  dining  room  and  pluck 
From  off  the  window-sills  and  walls 

Our  share  of  Father's  duck. 
While  Father  growls  and  blows  and  jaws. 
And  swears  the  knife  was  full  of  flaws. 
And  Mother  laughs  at  him  becaxise 

He  couldn't  carve  a  duck. 

E.  V.  Wright 

EPITAPH  ON  MT  EVER  HONORED  FATHER 

O  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains. 

Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 

The  tender  father,  and  the  gen'rous  friend; 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe, 

The  dauntless  heart  that  fear'd  no  human  pride; 
The  friend  of  man — to  vice  alone  a  foe; 

For  "ev'n  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side." 

Robert  Burns 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

rWTT-BEVBN    •^^^ 

TO  MT  FATHER'S  BOBMORT 


A  massive  oak  stocxl  straight  and  tall  amidst 
the  forest  trees.  The  sunlight  crowned  its 
lofty  head  with  molten  goldl  Beneath  its 
sturdy  limbs  both  man  and  beast  sought 
shelter  from  the  storm. 

Out  of  the  clear  blue  sky,  a  thunder-cloud  swept  into 
view;  and  from  the  parapet  of  Nature's  battlements, 
Great  Jove  shot  forth  a  fatal  bolt,  that  pierced  the  heart 
of  this  same  noble  Oak! 

King  of  the  Forest  lay  shattered  in  the  wood  1  The 
birds  no  longer  sang  within  the  arbors  of  its  sylvan 
shade;  the  simbeams  danced  no  more  upon  the  velvet 
lawn,  with  flickering  shadows  of  its  shimmering  leaves; 
no  more  the  lowing  kine  sought  shelter  'neath  its 
spreading  arms — its  scarred  and  mangled  trimk  alone 
remained,  a  monument  to  Life's  brief  tragedy! 

Such  waa  the  life  and  death  of  thee  we  mourn; 

Beneath  thy  rugged  form  a  heart  of  OakI 

As  ivy  winds  its  tendrils  round  the  tree, 

So  clung  thy  Dear  Ones  and  thy  Friends  to  thee. 

As  balmy  zephyrs  sway  the  tender  twigs, 

So  thy  response  to  sweet  Affection's  wand. 

The  Oak  stands  straight  despite  the  wintry  winds. 

So  thou  didat  meet  the  cruel  blast  of  Fatel 

Thy  Harp  of  Life  was  tuned  to  Charity; 
Blind  Justice  swept  its  strings  in  harmony 
With  rare  Fidelity;  and  Love  of  Man 
The  theme  that  filled  thy  soul  with  melody! 
True  to  thy  God,  thy  Fam'ly  and  thy  Friends, 
We  shall  not  often  see  thy  counterpart. 
Hail  I  and  Farewell  I     Bon  voyage  o'er  the  Seal 
A  few  short  years  and  we  shall  come  to  thee. 

Warren  E.  Comstock. 

THE  ARROW-MAEJS'S  LAMENT 

Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 

Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  I 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 

When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them. 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 

With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village. 

Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 

Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger. 

LONGFBLOOW 


DEAR      OLD     FATHER 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SON 

H%AD  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes 
I  of  succession,  I  should  have  been,  according  to 
my  mediocrity,  and  the  mediocrity  of  the  age 
in  which  I  live,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family;  I 
should  have  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which 
personal  merit  can  be  viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition, 
in  genius,  in  tastes,  in  honor,  in  generosity,  in  humanity, 
in  every  liberal  sentiment  and  every  liberal  accomplish- 
ment, would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to  the 
Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom  he  traces  in 
his  line.  His  Grace  very  soon  would  have  wanted  all 
plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision  which 
belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He  would  soon 
have  supplied  every  deficiency,  and  symmetrized  every 
disproportion.  It  would  not  have  been  for  that  suc- 
cessor to  resort  to  any  stagnant  wasting  reservoir  of 
merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in  himself  a 
salient,  living  spring  of  generous  and  manly  action. 
Every  day  he  lived,  he  would  have  repurchased  the 
bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  ten  times 
more  he  had  received.  He  was  made  a  public  creature, 
and  had  no  enjojnnent  whatever  but  in  the  performance 
of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent  moment  the  loss  of  a 
finished  man  is  not  easily  supplied. 

Edmund  Burke 


THE  ONE  WHO  LOVED  ME  BEST 

Can  I  do  justice  to  thia  man 
Who  was  my  Father  and  my  Friend? 
Ol  frail,  dull  pen,  help  me  to-day 
Immortelles,  on  his  grave  to  lay. 


HE  sweetest,  tenderest  memories  of  my  past 
life,  are  of  my  father,  and  so  I  shall  let  his 
character  portray  the  beauty  of  the  word. 
He  was  the  grandest  man  I  have  ever 
known  My  mother's  provider,  protector  and  sweet- 
heart for  forty-eight  years. 

He  was  surely  one  of  the  dearest  of  Fathers,  my 
instructor,  loving  parent  and  comrade.  As  a  child  the 
happiest  hours  I  knew  were  spent  at  his  knee.  To- 
gether we  read  God's  Word,  and  together  we  read  the 
poets,  and  (as  I  grew  in  years)  history  both  modem  and 
ancient.  Of  an  intensely  sentiitiental  temperament, 
my  preference  was  for  the  singers,  and  how  I  reveled  in 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

his  interpretation  of  Shakespeare,  Byron  and  Milton. 
Oh  I  the  richness  of  those  days  I  On  a  dark,  starless 
night  we  would  study  "The  Raven"  and  on  a  bright, 
sunshiny  morning  he  would  bid  me  bring  him  Shelly 
and  we  would  read  (verse  about)  that  matchless  poem 
"The  Lark." 

Dear  Father!  he  watched  my  mind  expand  as  I  watch 
a  red  rose  as  it  opens — a  petal  at  a  time.  Each  day 
we  loved  each  other  more,  and  his  delight  grew  as  he 
foimd  my  ideas  broadening,  and  my  ideals  reaching 
higher. 

Although  the  years  brought  other  ties  into  my  life, 

they   never  weakened  this  one,  between  Father  and 

Daughter,  and  until  his  death  at  eighty-three  years,  we 

were  still  companions — he  the  brilliant  teacher,  I  the 

adoring  pupil.  ,  „  „ 

Jennie  yvright  Howell 


A  FATHER'S  OBJECT 

ROM  the  time  that  you  have  had  life,  it  has 
been  the  principal  and  favorite  object  of  mine, 
to  make  you  as  perfect  as  the  imperfection  of 
Bl  human  nature  will  allow;  in  this  view  I  have 
grudged  no  pains  nor  expense  in  your  education;  con- 
vinced that  education,  more  than  nature,  is  the  cause 
of  that  great  difference  which  we  see  in  the  characters  of 
men.  While  you  were  a  child,  I  endeavored  to  form 
your  heart  habitually  to  the  virtue  and  honor,  before 
your  understanding  was  capable  of  showing  you  their 
beauty  and  utihty.  Those  principles,  which  you  then 
got  like  your  grammar  rules,  only  by  rote,  are  now,  I 
am  persuaded,  fixed  and  confirmed  by  reason.  And 
indeed  they  are  so  plain  and  clear,  that  they  require 
but  a  very  moderate  degree  of  understanding,  either  to 
comprehend  or  practise  them.  Lord  Shaftesbury  says, 
very  prettily,  that  he  would  be  virtuous  for  his  own 
sake,  though  nobody  were  to  know  it;  as  he  would  be 
clean  for  his  own  sake,  though  nobody  were  to  see  him. 
I  have  therefore,  since  you  have  had  the  use  of  your 
reason,  never  written  to  you  upon  those  subjects;  they 
speak  best  for  themselves;  and  I  should,  now,  just  as 
soon  think  of  warning  you  gravely  not  to  fall  into  the 
dirt  or  the  fire,  as  into  dishonor  or  vice. 

Lord  Chesterfield 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 

DAD'S  DREAMS 

The  good  old  dad  I  He  is  growing  old,  and  his  face 

has  lines  of  care;  his  steps  are  slow  that  were  free  and 

bold,  and  silver  is  in  his  hair.    And  stiU  he  works  at  hia 

weary  chores,  as  the  long  hours  roll  away;  and  not  for 

him  are  the  glad  outdoors,  and  the  joyous  holiday. 

His  face  is  sad,  but  a  pleasant  smile  anon  through  the 

sadness  gleams,  as  he  rests  his  head  on  his  hands  a 

while,  and  closes  his  eyes  and  dreams.    His  dreams  are 

all  of  his  boys  and  girls,  and  honors  that  they'll  enjoy; 

of  little  May  with  her  golden  curls,  of  Jack,  who's  a 

stalwart  boy.    And  Tom  is  certain  to  conquer  fame, 

for  Tom  is  a  splendid  son;  he'll  bring  renown  to  his 

father's  name,  when  the  old  man's  work  is  done.    And 

Jim  will  probably  learn  to  preach;  he's  pious,  and  clean 

and  smart;  and  throngs  will  gather  to  hear  him  teach 

the  lessons  that  lift  the  heart;  his  voice  will  tell  of  the 

day  of  wrath,  when  the  portals  shall  unfold;  he'll  lead 

the  wanderers  to  the  path  that  leads  to  the  gates  of 

gold.    And  Kate,  sweet  Kate,   with  the   thoughtful 

brow,  and  her  brave,  aspiring  heart,  will  leave  the  rut 

that  she  travels  now,  and  shine  in  the  world  of  art. 

And  all  of  his  loving  girls  and  boys  will  useful  and  help> 

ful  be,  and  live  their  lives  till  they  earn  the  joys  that 

dwell  in  eternity.    The  old  man  raises  his  head  once 

more,  for  his  dreams  are  flown  away,  and  he  goes  ahead 

with  his  weary  chore,  but  his  heart  is  light  and  gay. 

Wakt  Mason. 
Not  in  Contest. 
Written  expressly  for  Mb.  Woolabd. 


D 


CHESTERFIELD'S  INTENTION 

O  not  think  I  mean  to  dictate  as  a  parent;  I 
mean  to  advise  only  as  a  friend,  and  an  in- 
dulgent one  too;  and  do  not  apprehend  that  I 
mean  to  check  your  pleasures;  of  which,  on 
the  contrary,  I  desire  to  be  only  the  guide,  not  the 
censor.  Let  my  experience  supply  your  want  of  it  and 
clear  your  way  in  the  progress  of  your  youth  of  those 
thorns  and  briars  which  scratched  and  disfigured  me 
in  the  course  of  mine.  ^0^,,  Chesterfield 


DEAR      OLD      FATHER 


AWAT 

I  cannot  say,  and  I  will  not  say 
That  he  is  dead — He  ia  jiist  away! 

With  a  cheery  smile,  and  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
He  has  wandered  into  an  unknown  land. 

And  left  ns  dreaming  how  very  fau- 
lt needs  must  be,  since  he  lingers  there. 

And  you — O  you,  who  the  wildest  yearn 
For  the  old-time  step  and  the  glad  return — 

Think  of  him  faring  on,  as  dear 

In  the  love  of  There  as  the  love  of  Here; 

And  loyal  still,  as  he  gave  the  blows 

Of  his  warrior-strength  to  his  country's  foes — 

Mild  and  gentle,  as  he  was  brave — 
When  the  sweetest  love  of  his  life  he  gave 

To  simple  things — Where  the  violets  grew 
Blue  as  the  eyes  they  were  likened  to. 

The  touches  of  his  hands  have  strayed 
Aa  reverently  as  his  lips  have  prayed: 

When  the  little  brown  thrush  that  harshly  chirred 
Was  dear  to  him  as  the  moddng-bird; 

And  he  pitied  as  much  as  a  man  in  pain 
A  writhing  honey-bee  wet  with  rain — 

Think  of  him  still  aa  the  same  I  say: 
He  ia  not  dead — ^he  ia  just  awayl 

Jamkb  Whitoomb  Romt 

From  "Afterwhaea,"  Copyright  1887 

Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishen 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


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Compilations  of 
SAMUEL  FRANCIS  WOOLARD 


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GOOD  FELLOWSHIP 

THE  BEAUTIES  OF  FRIENDSHIP  tl 

ALL  THAT'S  LOVE-LY  S 

PICTURES  OF  MEMORY 

GLORIOUS  MOTHER 

DEAR  OLD  FATHER 

THINGS  BEAUTIFUL 

THE  SUNSHINE  OF  LIFE 


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GOLDSMITH-WOOLARD    PUBLISHING    CO.     I 
Wichita.  Kansas  I 

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